


Lost Boy

by businessghost



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Canon Compliant, Drug Abuse, F/M, M/M, Physical Abuse, Pre-Series, Prostitution, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-01-26 22:35:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1705040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/businessghost/pseuds/businessghost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam Winchester has been battling evil creatures for as long as he can remember, but at the age of twelve he discovers that his brother, Dean, has become tangled up with the kinds of demons that can't be exorcised, and Dean's affliction is tearing him to pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work that's been published, and as much as I fear that you won't like it, I'm much more concerned that I won't improve from this point without some comments and constructive criticism! So if you're inclined please do leave commentary below, and tell me what you want in coming chapters! Also: special thanks to Bec, McKinley, Daelly, Acacia, and Beta, my beta readers!

 Sam Winchester didn’t have much of anything that was solid or certain in his life. His father was constantly changing and shifting, bottles of whiskey peeling away his layers of gruff indifference into the raw tortured man that he was. He shouted and cursed and it scared Sam to see his father that way. Their homes changed night-to-night and the fear that one of his few family members would be taken always lingered at every abandoned house, around the edges of every salt circle. He himself was changing, at the tender age of 12 he began to chafe against his father’s will.  Their ideas clashed in dangerous scenes where guns were raised to demons that _couldn’t_ be defeated, and alcohol was applied liberally to wounds that couldn’t just be numbed out of existence.

                Through the crashing and whirling eddies of his life the one thing he was sure of was his brother, Dean. His brother was predictable and stubborn, but he was always there. He had raised Sam as much as their father, and it was to him Sam turned when his father raised a calloused hand against him. He was the nearest thing to home Sam had.

He relied on his brother, and never considered that Dean would need someone to lean on. Not until the day he found his brother curled up on the dirty floor of the motel bathroom, spasming and sweating, heaving into the toilet. Not until Dean looked up at Sam with untempered shame and fear in his eyes did Sam ever think that his brother wasn’t solid after all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Since Dean turned 16 Sam had expected his brother to grow apart from him. He had legally gotten his driver’s license a few months ago, though he’d been driving for years, and he had taken to sleeping in the Impala most nights. He seemed to recede into himself after his birthday, he spoke even less than John and had made no acquaintances at whichever school they happened to be attending for the week.

The only time he opened up was after a successful hunt. He seemed to take grim satisfaction in shooting down ghosts and monsters. Perhaps he felt powerful, maybe it just felt familiar, but Sam doubted he did it to protect the innocent people. It occurred to Sam that his brother was acting more and more like their father, but he knew that Dean and his father weren’t really the same. He didn’t want Dean to become the same bitter shell his father was. He believed that Dean was a better man.

It was on this belief that Sam approached Dean later that same night. His brother had gone to the Impala to sleep, which almost certainly a sign that something was wrong. He loved that car, and felt safest in its smoky-smelling cab. Sam opened up the passenger-side door, sliding in on the leather. Immediately Dean spoke up,

“What’s the matter, Sammy?” it wasn’t Dean’s usual rumbling voice, but a thin and shaky shadow. Almost like Dean himself. Sam hesitated in answering, wondering if he should risk angering his brother. “C’mon, kid, spit it out or leave me alone.” Sam shifted in the seat, turning to face his brother in the back.

 “What’s wrong?” he asked plaintively. Dean sat up, fixing Sam with a suspicious gaze, tugging on the sleeves of his leather jacket. “Are you cold?” asked Sam, gesturing towards the jacket that certainly wasn’t necessary in April.

“Y-yeah” Dean affirmed. “I’m sick… so uh, sorry you walked in on that before.” That was a strange thing to apologize for, but Sam shrugged it off.

 He replied “I guess that makes sense. It’s just, you looked scared or something.” He chuckled uneasily. A cagey wild-animal look flashed behind Dean’s eyes, then suddenly, it turned to a determined steel.

“No.” he said much more firmly. “Just surprised and sick.” “Is that all you came in here to bug me about?” This was an obvious dismissal. Sam opened the door and said,

 “Yeah, um. Feel better, Dean.” As he climbed out of the car.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Winchesters were hunters, and for Sam the monsters in the dark were very real. Even though he had known about the world of the Supernatural for as long as he could remember, he still had nightmares.

Every night a different body lay before him in his dreams, broken and bent at unnatural angles. His father. Dean. Uncle Bobby. Even the smiling face of his mother whom he’d only seen in pictures was cold and lifeless before him. Worse still was the blood under his fingernails, streaked down his arms, blood he knew belonged to his loved ones. Fire raced through his veins, and reflecting in the pooling blood his eyes were an inhuman yellow, and mad laughter echoed around the dark room, laughter that was ripped from his own throat.

Sam sat up in the creaky motel bed, sweating and shaking. He glanced at the illuminated clock next to his bed. 2:20 AM. Great. He decided that maybe he would go outside for a while, to catch a breath of air that wasn’t laced with alcohol fumes and cigarette smoke.  Maybe he would check on his brother, hopefully he was getting better.

Sam drew the thin blanket around himself and tiptoed past the slumbering John, and opened the door, walking into the parking lot. As he came nearer to the Chevy he noticed that something was off about it. The back door had been left slightly open, and his brother was nowhere to be found inside. He may have left if he had to be sick. Sam climbed inside the car and snuggled into the blanket, deciding to wait for his brother.

He woke again as him brother entered the car, the sky was light grey, and it was perhaps 5 O’ clock. “Sammy” Dean whispered hoarsely. “Kid, wake up”. Sam tried to stretch, but his gangly limbs bumped the ceiling of the Impala. Sam yawned and looked at his brother, whose hands were shaking a bit wildly. Sleepily Sam commented,

“Maybe if you didn’t stay out in the cold like that you wouldn’t shiver so bad.” Dean said nothing to this, but instead clasped his hands together, almost to hide the shaking, his knuckles blanching white.

“What’cha doin’ in my car, Sammy?” blearily Sam responded

 “I came out here after a dream, I thought I’d check on you, but you were gone so I waited.” Dean looked sympathetic, he knew Sam had nightmares but he didn’t know what they were about. It was one of few things Sam didn’t share with his brother.

Sam squinted up at Dean. “Didja get sick again? You sound kinda sick.” Dean cleared his throat, but his voice was still scratchy.

“Yeah. I had to leave for a while.” He smiled and reached out to ruffle Sam’s hair. “I come back and there’s some urchin in my car!” Sam ducked away from his brother, he was far too old for hair-ruffling, but he chuckled anyway. Dean grinned mischievously at him in a way he hadn’t in a long time. “Now what is it you like to do, nerd? School or something? Why don’t you go get ready for that?” Sam nodded eagerly, thinking that maybe Dean was only sick after all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the following days Dean seemed to get better, even talking a little bit to their dad and joking with Sam. He was so different from the brother he’d been in the past months Sam almost wondered if it was too good to be true. Dean seemed almost too amiable, like maybe he was trying to make up for being so moody? Or maybe trying to cover it up. But he acted like the old Dean, and Sam was glad that, even as they moved to another town and another job, he seemed to have his brother back.

On the second day of school in the Junior High where Sam had been recently enrolled he was sent home early with a nosebleed. He walked back to the motel, trying to balance with his head tilted all the way back and a tissue top of it all to staunch the blood. He thought that if the school nurse had known how much blood he lost on a weekly basis she wouldn’t have bothered to send him home for one little bloody nose.

He cracked open the door to their luxurious room in the La Sporcizia motel, and flicked on the light.

He expected the room to be deserted, but he could hear the sound of crying coming from behind the bathroom door. The sobs were heaving and breathless, gasping and wanting and hurt. If agony made a sound it would be woven through the cries coming from the bathroom. Sam set his bag down on the floor by the door and approached the bathroom door. He opened it slowly and peeked inside. The door was quiet enough that Dean didn’t seem to notice Sam until he was standing entirely in the doorway.

Sam had never seen his brother openly display this much emotion. He sat on the edge of the bathtub clenching his fists together in front of him, staring at his bare forearms. His wailing came to an abrupt stop when Sam finally managed to squeak out, “Dean?”. Dean stood up, yanked harshly down the sleeves of his jacket and scrubbed the tears from his face in mere seconds. The boys looked at each other, and as Sam stepped forward to comfort his brother Dean stumbled back in fear. Dean let out a pained gasp and scrambled out of the bathroom, pushing violently past Sam and out the still-open front door.

Sam made a thorough check of the bathroom, but found nothing out of place inside. He felt lost, and decided to call Bobby for advice. As he heard the phone ring on the other end he wondered if he was betraying his brother by outing him. Bobby picked up and he decided he didn’t care. “Hello?” answered Bobby in a familiarly rough voice. Sam traded quick greetings and hurriedly explained the situation, glancing at the door, fearing that Dean or John would walk through it. Bobby assured him that Dean was just being a moody teenager, and hung up, but Sam wasn’t so sure. Something was seriously wrong with his brother. And Sam knew how he was going to find out what.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                It had seemed like a good idea to follow Dean and find out where his brother was disappearing to after the world had gone to sleep, but it was 3 AM and Sam was falling asleep in his hiding place, even though he was wedged uncomfortably between the cold brick wall and a rusty vending machine. Every time he blinked his eyelids grew heavier. Just as his breathing began to shallow out he heard a car door open. Instantly alert, he rocked forward on his toes, and watched as Dean crept out of the Impala and snuck down the street.

                Sam followed his older brother down the dark streets, past storefront after storefront until they came upon a part of the city that was still awake. Neon signs for bars, adult DVD stores, and other shady services cast sickly light on the sidewalks and the people wandering them. The passerby wore different expressions, some of pain, lust, hunger, or shame, but they all looked the same under the sick neon glow. Wandering and empty. What was worse was the same look reflected in his brother’s face.

                 All his life Dean had looked confident, to Sam he seemed to fill up a room with his presence. The boy Sam was following down the street now looked nothing like that. He was shrunken into himself, arms wrapped around his chest, he looked thin, much thinner than his leather jacket made it seem. He was small and looked lost under the streetlights. This boy wasn’t the hero-older-brother that Sam relied on.

                Dean turned into an alleyway, and went through it into the back parking lot beyond. The place was fenced in and full of debris. The lot was behind a dive-bar called The Five Points. Dean glanced fearfully around him, causing Sam to duck behind the nearest dumpster. He peeked over the lid to see Dean knocking on the back door.

                A tall, thin man with a half-shaven head and thick-rimmed square glasses answered the door. His face twisted in an amused sneer, the kind of expression Sam had seen on the face of a hundred school bullies. “Dean Winchester”, He purred.

Dean looked up at the man sullenly, “Rafael.” He spat.

“Have you come to play more games with me, little boy?” said Rafael

Dean looked at him in disgust, “No. You got your… payment.”

Rafael laughed, “And what payment it was, boy!” he conceded.

Dean thrust out his hand, “Look. I’m here. You’ve been paid. Now keep your end of the bargain.” He nearly spat the words at Rafael.

Rafael’s whole demeanor changed. His coy behavior disappeared and was replaced by an aura of command. “Don’t act like that towards me, _perra_. You came groveling to me, shaking like a dog. You weren’t so high and mighty when you were on your knees, bitch.”

Dean looked like he’d been slapped. Entirely cowed, he muttered an apology. But the way Dean looked was nothing compared to how Sam felt. On his knees? It sounded like… like Dean had… Sam felt saliva welling under his tongue. What could possibly be worth Dean selling… himself?

A shudder ran up Sam’s spine. This problem was worse than Sam had originally conceived. He wanted to turn and run to the motel, run away from this truth that he wasn’t meant to see. But the way Dean had been acting… Sam knew he needed support. So he lingered behind the dumpster, watching in shocked silence.

Rafael handed Dean a tightly rolled brown bag. As soon as Dean held it his face flooded with manic relief, it was as if that bag contained everything their life was missing. Warmth and security and free will. Rafael snorted contemptuously at Dean’s obvious reliance on the bag. Dean looked up at the older man,

“Thank you” he said, holding the bag reverentially.

Instead of a reply Rafael grabbed Sam’s brother by the shirt collar and slammed him into the wall of the Five Points. He ravaged his mouth ferociously before he suddenly let go and stepped back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He turned on one heel, and went inside, slamming the door behind him.

Dean stood in the dark parking lot gazing at the parcel in his hands with equal parts worship and shame. His little brother had seen enough, he sank slowly behind the dumpster, and began to cry.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I can't believe you actually clicked on the next chapter button. Thank you! You get 10 points if you find the hidden foreign language in this chapter and 100 points if you comment with what it means!

Sam rested against the dumpster, feelings roiling inside of him. Disgust welled under his tongue, shame burned in his cheeks, and fear made his limbs heavy. His brother was weak. He was pathetic and Sam didn’t follow him away from the parking lot. He didn’t want to see any more evidence that Dean was the most fragile Winchester of all.

                When the grey of pre-dawn streaked the sky and Sam finally grew tired of his confused thoughts chasing each other he trudged out of the red light district. His eyelids were heavy and as he finally stumbled into the motel he crashed into bed immediately, still wearing his boots.

                Sam woke and went to school on only 3 hours of sleep, which was fairly typical for a hunter’s life. Throughout the day he tuned out the lessons that he usually listened to with rapt attention. His thoughts cycled around the same truths: Dean was a coward. Dean was weak. The most familiar part of his life came crumbling down. What shocked him the most was how he felt about Dean’s, he grimaced, prostitution. He was ashamed of his brother, he was disgusted. He knew, intuitively, that if their situations had been reversed, if Sam had been struggling with some strange addiction, Dean would be supportive, even in a rough way. Sam felt nothing like that. He was repulsed.

                After school Sam detoured from the route to the La Sporcizia to his favorite place, the public library. No matter where they were, no matter if it was a big city or a backwater southern town, there was always a library, and in it there were computers. Behind the screen of the computer was where his only real friend lived. His name was Gabriel.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                Sam logged on to his IM account, tapping his foot with nervous energy that he hadn’t possessed during the long school day. He stared intently at the little grey icon in the IM window, as if that would make Gabe come online sooner. After about ten minutes of pretending to write an essay, lest the librarian give him weird looks, the little icon next to Gabriel’s name glowed green. Immediately Sam sent him a message,

                “Hey gabe”

                “what’s up, moose?”

                Their conversation wound on with small talk made and pleasantries exchanged. Sam wondered if he could trust Gabe with Dean’s secret. He was one of the few friends Sam had. He’d met him while his dad was working a ghoul case in a small town in Alabama called Westbank. Sam had literally bumped into him while searching through the mythology section at the local library. They’d bonded over their love for mythology, although Gabe knew much more about biblical myths, and over their deadbeat fathers. Gabe hadn’t seen his father since he was young, he said it felt like eons. He was raised by his older brothers, but their family was chaotic. Gabe confided to Sam that he just wanted to run away. Sam could relate. They solved the case three days later, but before they left they traded IM usernames.

                It had been almost a year and a half since they’d become friends, and if anyone gave sound advice it was Gabe. After all, he was a much older and wiser 13-year-old. Sam must’ve hesitated too long in responding because his computer gave a soft alert.

                “sammy?”

                Only two people were allowed to call Sam that. The people he trusted most. Or, he corrected, the people he HAD trusted most.

                “sorry. got lost in thought.”

                “what about, chucklehead?”

                “about that. i was wondering, how do you know if you’re uh… addicted to something?”

                In his reply Sam could almost hear Gabe’s voice turn suspicious. He thought he was Sam’s guardian or something dumb like that.

                “why, sam? why do you need to know?”

                Sam quickly corrected his mistake.

                “not for me! it’s my brother. he’s been acting really weird, so I followed him. he’s done some pretty nasty stuff, all for this one little brown paper bag of something.”

                “oh. i’m sorry sam. i doubt that it’s alcohol, so it’s probably some kinda drug.”

                Drugs? The one thing that was probably worse for you than drinking, and his brother had to be tangled up in it. Stupid.

                “drugs? like pot?”

                Sam imagined Gabe snorting in a little bit of superior contempt.

                “no, dumbass. like cocaine or acid. has his nose been bleeding?”

                “noooo…”

                “well i can’t give you answers with such little information. try finding out more. observe, kiddo. use your senses.”

                At least he had some kind of goal. Observe Dean. Sam wasn’t sure if he wanted to, after what he’d seen last night, but if there was one thing that John had beat into his head more than anything else it was loyalty to his family. He’d have to help his brother, it was more of a duty than a real desire to assist.

                “thanks gabe.”

                “you don’t have to thank me, dummy. i’m always here to help.”

                Sam said his goodbyes and signed off, he had to get back to the motel soon, or his family might be suspicious of where he’d been all that time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                When Sam got back to the hotel his father wasn’t there, but Dean was. He sat in silence and finished the homework that he’d likely as not turn in. He didn’t say a word as Dean scraped together the stale pizza they ordered a week ago and served for it dinner. He laid on the bed, quietly reading while Dean watched TV. He didn’t meet his brother’s eyes once.

                He could feel Dean’s eyes on him. He peeked up at his brother, looking through his lashes. Dean’s brow was creased with worry, looking at his brother. He seemed to hesitate and then spoke up,

                “Sammy? Everything alright?”

                Sam pretended not to hear, looking determinedly at the same sentence on the page, reading it over and over, absorbing none of its meaning.

                “Did something happen at school?”

                The young Winchester flipped a page, remaining taciturn.

                “Sam. Don’t ignore me. What’s wrong?”

                _What’s wrong?_ thought Sam. What’s wrong is that Dean could act like he always had, like the brother Sam had always known, lying about the coward he truly was. This time Sam looked up at Dean, looking right into his green eyes that were touched by concern.

                “I don’t know, _Dean._ ” He said, acid in every word. “What _is_ wrong? Or, I dunno, what isn’t?”

                Dean’s expression changed instantly. A calculated mask of confusion hiding fear.  Sam hadn’t noticed it ever before, but know that he knew what his brother really was he could see the deception clearly.

                “What’re you talkin’ about, Sammy?”

                So that’s how he’d play. Run away. Pretend. Sam found himself thinking that Dean had run out of their burning house on that cold November night, and he’d never really stopped running.

                “Nothing. Never mind.” He huffed, irritated.

                Dean shrugged and turned back to the T.V. There was a tension in his shoulders that hadn’t been present before.

                Sam stayed up late, waiting for John to return, though he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps he thought he could take some kind of comfort from a bit fatherly wisdom? From John Winchester? Ha! He couldn’t tell John a thing. He was mad at his brother, sure, but he wouldn’t be selling him out to his father. Sam sensed that if John were to find out about Dean, if he said what Sam had been thinking that Dean might just give up. Dean relied on being a good little soldier. Sam had to protect his brother.

                Dean shut off the T.V., stood up and stretched, and, with one last worried glance in Sam’s direction left the motel room to go sleep in the Impala.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                Sam fell asleep before John returned, if he returned at all. His dreams were troubled by Rafael’s voice, twisted and evil, calling his brother terrible things. He was calling him all of the labels Sam had given him in the past day. Each word was like the slice of a blade, raising red cuts on his conscience. A corpselike Dean knelt in his dream world, curled in on himself protectively, but Rafael’s voice still echoed around the room.

                _“Coward”_ it hissed _“Scum. Weak. Pathetic.”_

With every word the emaciated Dean winced, his eyes were unnaturally large and dark, his pale withered skin was stretched too-tight over his cheekbones. He looked more like a skeleton than a person.

                The insults became hissing wind, ripping through Sam’s brother, tearing apart his very form. The image of his brother raised its head, and looked him right in the eye. A tear rolled down his leathery cheek. The ghoulish form of his brother looked beyond defeated. It was already dead.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be warned, lots of things in this chapter could be triggering. There's implied child abuse, implied alcoholism, and more talk of drugs and drug abuse. Please only read ahead if you're okay with reading about these kinds of topics. There's a shameless self-insert in this chapter. 200 points if you put the character you think it is in the comments!

Sam woke with a start, perspiration beading on the nape of his neck. Sitting in the dark motel room he thought it almost looked like the void of his dreams where his mummified brother had lain. He checked the clock, but it was only 4:00. Sam sighed. He knew he wouldn’t be falling back asleep, so he crept to his backpack laying on the rickety kitchen table, and removed his worn copy of “The Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy” from inside of it. He admired Douglas Adams’ dry wit and found it funny that the cover was inscribed with the words “DON’T PANIC” in, as it said in the book, “large, friendly letters”. He sat at the table, sticky with some unnamable substance, and read until his father stumbled in at 6:30 or so.

                John burst violently through the door to the motel room, smelling of cheap whiskey and greasy bar food. Sam wasn’t particularly surprised. It wasn’t a question of whether or not his father got smashed, but rather a question of whether he would yell, grieve, or pass out. What was surprising is that John pivoted to face his youngest son. He slurred out,

                “Somethins no’ righ’, Sammy”

                Sam winced. He didn’t mind Dean or Gabe calling him that, but it was almost cruel coming out of his father’s mouth. Teasing him with the familiarity they never achieved. His father’s gaze narrowed, and he would have looked shrewd and calculating had his eyes not been clouded by the haze alcohol brought on. He squinted until his eyes were almost comically close to being shut. It was obvious that he was waiting for Sam to give an answer. The youngest Winchester rolled his eyes,

                “And what is that, Sir?”

                “Yer brother and you… Ya keep secrets?”

                “Of course not, sir” Sam sneered

                “Liar.” John grunted. “Both of ya, liars.”

                “What are we lying about?”

                “What’re we lying about, _Sir_ ”, Stressed John, clenching a fist.

                Sam’s tone changed to a forced respect as inwardly he shuddered, thinking about the bruises still on his back. “What are we lying about, _Sir_?” he repeated.

                “I dunno. But Dean…” he struggled for a word, “he ain’t right. Ne’er been, but now he’s got something inside him, Sammy. And you’re keeping it secret for him”

                Apparently his father did pay some attention. Sam supposed it was touching, but he really didn’t need any kind of extra surveillance right now. He drew himself up to his newly reached full height, and looked John right in the eye as he had never before.

“I don’t have anything to hide. Neither does Dean. What a time for you to start caring!”

John looked suspiciously at Sam, and stepped forward, grabbing him by the shirt collar and pinning him against the peeling wallpaper. He leaned in close, and Sam could smell his sour breath. Adrenaline spiked through his body, fear making his heart jackhammer, pounding against his chest. He closed his eyes, turning his head away. Suddenly he heard an unusual sound, almost like wings, and a breeze swept through the room. He felt his father’s grip slacken, and looked at him in confusion. His father’s eyes glowed faintly with a white light, and he dropped Sam entirely. He trudged to the bed nearest the kitchen and collapsed into it, a shadow pooling around him and then disappearing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                Sam stumbled through his lessons later that morning, doodling idly, following the pattern of a normal school day. However, at lunch, as he dozed off with his fork still resting on the edge of a pile of mystery meat, something unheard of happened. A cute blonde girl in a Smurfs t-shirt slid onto the bench next to him, looking at him expectantly. Sam shook himself out of his groggy state.

                “Um. Hello?” He ventured, uncertainty in his voice making the statement more of a question.

                She giggled a bit, “Hi!” her voice was extremely bubbly. “I’m Jess!”

                Still utterly confused it took Sam a moment to respond, “Oh. Uh. I’m Sam.”

                She pressed on, despite how stupid Sam was sure he sounded. “Yeah, Sam Winchester, right? You’re new, aren’t you?”

                “Yep. New. That’s what I am.”

                She giggled again, though Sam didn’t think he’d said anything funny. “Well, I thought it looked kind of lonely over here, Sam, so I came to join you!”

                Sam found that near Jess it was rather easy to forget about the family business and all of the recent Dean drama. She made it seem like he was just a normal kid. It was nice, thought Sam, to be normal. They were so deep in conversation about their mutual love for history that Sam was disappointed when the bell rang, and he and Jess parted ways. He thought that if they were still in town next week, he’d definitely seek her out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                It was a Friday night, which meant almost nothing to the Winchesters, accept that John might be home, carrying greasy burgers with him, so they could have a mockery of a family dinner. Sam would really rather have a salad or something, he wasn’t really a fan of eating his way to heart failure. He was, however, saved, because John didn’t come home that night, apparently struggling with a coven of witches.

                Dean and Sam ate dinner (one of Dean’s three specialties: mac ‘n cheese) quietly. Sam thought about telling him about Jess, but he decided to leave her out of his hunting life. They threw away their paper bowls and plastic spoons. Dean went to take a shower, while Sam sat perched on the edge of his bed, reading his most recent book, _Walk Two Moons_. He was just starting chapter 4 when he heard Dean call from the other side of the grubby bathroom door. It may have been the muffling effect of the wood, but Sam could have sworn he heard a note of panic in his brother’s voice

                “Sammy? Could you bring me my jacket?”

                Sam snorted, “Why don’t you get it yourself?”

                “ _Please?”_ asked Dean

                Well, _that_ was unusual. His brother certainly wasn’t polite enough to use the “Magic word” but Sam wasn’t particularly persuaded. “Just do it for yourself” He called to his brother.

                The bathroom door creaked open, and Dean shuffled out. Sam looked over his brother, trying to determine why the jacket was so necessary, he was already wearing a black T-shirt and jeans. Then his eyes drifted lower. Dean’s forearms were covered in tens of tiny bruises, a few freshly purple, and others fading to a sickly green.

                Alarmed, Sam began to say, “Dean what happ-” but his brother had already found the worn leather jacket, and shrugged it on, relaxing as he did so. He looked nonchalantly at Sam, with a glint of desperate steel in his eyes.

                “What did you say, Sammy?”

                Sam hated it. He hated that his father pushed him around, knocked him down, disrespected and ignored him. And now his brother was doing it too, threatening him with merely a cold glare. Sam found his voice, and found it much stronger and forceful than it had been,

                “I asked you what happened to your arms.”

                Again, Dean had a caged-animal desperation in the tensity of his muscles, in the strained tone of voice he used when he said, “Nothing happened, Sam. Nothing for you to be worried about.”

                He strode to the door, opening it, slipping outside into the dark, and slamming it shut. He was running again. Running away from Sam and whatever the bruises on his arms meant.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                Sam figured that he had to discuss his findings with Gabe, so he put on his hoodie and headed out into the night, trying to find his way to the library. He could feel a bite in the night air, one that seemed to contradict the coming spring. As he walked he tried to juggle two trains of thought at once. Humming, thinking about his book, composing the introduction for his English essay, anything to keep him from dwelling on Dean, while simultaneously a new theory about Dean was forming, lurking in the back of his mind, so twisted that he refused to even acknowledge it.

                He entered the harsh fluorescent glow of the library lights, glad for the indoor heating. He was the only person there besides a bored-looking girl with short hair, volunteering for the night shift. She looked up at him through cat-eyed glasses before turning her attention back to her book.

                Sam hurried to the same computer station he had used the other day, and logged in to his IM account. He took a little bit of comfort in seeing Gabriel’s buddy icon lit up. He started in on his friend immediately.

                “gabe. i need some advice”

                “well hello to you too, moose. what about?”

                “um. the thing with my brother.  he’s got all these.. bruises up and down his arms. do you think he’s injecting something maybe?”

                “figure that out all by yourself, didja?”

                “wow. okay. i just don’t wanna believe it, gabe.”

                “sorry, sam-o. that was mean. i get it, i’d like to believe my brothers are better people”

                “hey. deans still a good person!” But as Sam typed his indignant statement he wasn’t sure if he believed it. He supposed Dean was objectively good, in a heroic way, but he had lots of flaws.

                “woah, okay cowboy. i get it, he’s still a good guy. maybe do some research on the side effects of drugs that can be injected, there are still a lot.”

                “yeah. okay. that sounds like a good idea.”

                “hey, sammy?”

                “yeah, gabe?”

                “I know you arent really religious, but i’ve been praying for you. maybe you could try, it might make you feel better.”

                “oh. uh.” Sam didn’t know how to react to being prayed for. It was as unfamiliar as it was heartwarming to him. “thanks, gabe. i guess i’ll give it a shot.”

                He almost signed out before he changed his mind, “and i’m sorry, gabe. about your brothers. i guess everyone’s family has flaws.”

                “you have no idea, sam. happy hunting.”

                Sam signed out. It was funny, he thought, Gabriel probably meant hunting for information, but it sounded like he actually knew about Sam’s real life.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                Sam researched until his eyes swam with medical terms like “abscess” and “amenorrhea”. The library volunteer had dozed off, one hand pressed into her cheek, the other resting over the pages of her novel. Sam felt a little bad, she probably could have gone home by now if he hadn’t still been there. He turned off the computer, rubbing his eyes and plodding wearily to the glass library doors.

                He returned to the hotel at around 1 AM, and John was there, thankfully asleep, though Dean was nowhere to be seen. Sam peeled back the rough sheets of the motel bed, but then he had a strange thought. He had already followed Gabriel’s advice about doing research, maybe he should follow the other advice he was given.

                A bit self-consciously, Sam knelt down next to his bed, resting his folded hands on the edge of the hard mattress. When he was still very small Dean used to tuck him in, repeating the words his mother had once said over the older boy, “angels are watching over you”. He decided that he would pray to them, instead of to god. He asked for help with Dean, prayed that his father would shape up one day, that he would be safe from the monsters he hunted, and from the ones he didn’t, the ones that walked around in the skins of his father and brother. He prayed for a normal life, and he imagined the girl from lunch that day, Jess, as part of it.

                As he finished his prayer, saying “amen” as if he didn’t know the meaning of the word, he imagined golden angel wings wrapping protectively around him, and he felt peaceful. He climbed into bed and slept until the birds began singing, well after dawn. For once, waking and feeling rested.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last, the secret is revealed! (Okay so it's only been a few thousand words, but for poor Sammy it's been a few days.) All the tags apply still, so be cautious!

As Sam blinked himself awake he heard his brother’s baritone voice… singing? It sounded like “Highway To Hell” by AC DC. That was one of their Dad’s favorite bands, so it became Dean’s too. They were more alike than Sam had realized. He slid out of bed, and looked into the kitchenette. Dean stood at the old gas stove, frying up, by the smell of it, huevos rancheros. The scene, while pleasant was somehow foreboding, like the calm before a storm.  Dean looked over his shoulder at Sam, a grin that was too wide to be genuine spreading across his face.

                “Sammy!” he called, “I made some breakfast!”

                Sam was a growing boy, and his growling stomach led him to the old, rickety table. Dean set down a plate of the eggs in front of him. Sam mumbled his thanks.

                They both ate voraciously, and as Sam scraped away the last bit of his breakfast with a fork he ventured,

                “So, this is nice and all but, why?

                Dean put on a calculated look of confusion. “What do you mean why?”

                “Why did you make breakfast? You never do.”

                “Maybe I wanted to something nice for the whiny kid in my life” teased Dean.

                “Maybe you like cooking, like a little housewife” quipped Sam.

                “Bitch” said Dean, with fondness not usually associated with that word.

                “Jerk” Sam said, grinning at his brother.

                Everything seemed so remarkably normal, even considering how strange their lives always were. It was a familiar kind of strange, where Dean was the protective older brother, and Sam could rely on him. Sam savored the moment, tucking it away with the rest of his unspoiled memories of Dean. Then, there came a knock at the door, and the moment was shattered.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                Dean opened the door, gun pointed through the wood, just as their father had shown them, as soon as they were each able to hold a weapon. When he saw who it was, though, he let the firearm drop. Sam didn’t blame him, the kid in their doorway didn’t look like much of a threat to anyone. He was haggard and had a sickly pallor, even though he appeared to be of Indian descent. His black eyes looked far too large for his thin face, and they rolled in their sockets like billiard balls. He was filled with some kind of nervous energy, and it seemed to be the only thing keeping him upright. His hands shook and sweat dripped from his hairline down his temples. If the guy looked bad, he didn’t smell much better. He smelled too sweet and slightly sour, like rotting fruit, or decomposing bodies. Dean’s brow furrowed looking at the boy,

                “Noah?”

                The boy, Noah, nodded. “Dean Winchester, right?”

                “Uh, yeah. What do you want?”

                The kid glanced down at his shaking hands. “Why don’t we talk outside?” he suggested, his tone of voice changing persuasively.

                Dean looked like he had come to a realization. “Right.” He said, in a mirrored tone, “Let’s talk in my car.”

                Dean glanced at Sam, and pushed his brother back, steering him with the center of his chest. “Stay here, Sam.” Yeah right, Sam thought, but didn’t say.

                Noah took on a patronizing voice, “Yeah, kid. Stay here, while the big boys-” Dean silenced him with a glare.

                They made their way out of the motel room, heading towards the Impala, as agreed upon. Sam went to the window over the kitchen table, looking out through the dirty screen. He saw Dean leaned up against the beloved Chevy as Noah stood in front of him, waving his arms emphatically. Dean looked troubled, then annoyed, and Sam saw his face go stone cold. It looked like their father’s when he was angry, and though Sam had never seen Dean wear the expression, he was sure it meant “No.”. Sure enough, Dean shook his head slowly and before him, Noah collapsed.

                Noah groveled in front of his brother, shaking harder now, begging for what Sam had decided were drugs. He clutched at Dean’s leather jacket, but his brother kept denying him, and finally, he got visibly angry. He shouted words that Sam couldn’t hear at Noah, who only cringed and backed away. Dean turned away abruptly, stalking back towards the Motel, apparently Noah hadn’t realized he was being dismissed because he stood in the parking lot, gazing balefully at Dean.

                Sam recognized a chance when he got one. He needed to interrogate that boy. He obviously knew what Dean was doing. He decided on his course of action in the split second before Dean opening the door to their room, storming inside.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                Sam tried to act casual, but he had to leave before his target escaped. He snatched his backpack off the floor, and turned to Dean.

                “I’m going to the library to do some research for an English project” he said, lying smoothly.

                Without giving Dean a chance to object he made for the door handle, he had his hand on the tarnished brass, could almost hear the answers he’d been searching for ringing in his ears. Dean grabbed his wrist, questions etched into this face. Too bad, thought Sam, I can keep secrets too. He tore his arms from Dean’s grasp, and tried to put a hand on his arm, to placate him, but Dean ripped his arm away, reacting like Sam had burned him, instead of merely touching his arm. Sam took the momentary distraction and slipped out the door.

                Sam hurried across the parking lot, waiting until he was sure he was out of Dean’s view and breaking into a run. It seemed, in the minute or so that it had taken him to escape the motel, Noah had disappeared. He sprinted down the sidewalk, bag bumping wildly against his back, scanning the crowds for a hunched figure. He found Noah, sulking near a liquor store, about 3 blocks down the main road.

                Sam slowed his pace, and approached the older boy cautiously. He didn’t seem to be looking in Sam’s direction, apparently too focused on his failure at the hands of Sam’s brother. Sam snuck around him quietly, and leaped, dragging him by the collar into the alley on the side of the liquor store.

                He kept a hand firmly clamped on Noah’s mouth, pressing him against the wall, elbow locked at his throat. The Indian boy was so thin, and rather short, that Sam, who’d already Hit the 5’ 7” mark, had no trouble keeping him pinned. He looked Noah in the eye, and said in low, threatening voice,

                “You’re going to answer some questions for me, or this elbow’s going to be in places a lot more painful than your windpipe.”

                Noah nodded, terrified.

                Sam slowly removed his hand from Noah’s mouth.

                “Now,” he continued, “What was it you wanted from my brother?”

                Noah looked pained, he rasped out, “You really don’t wanna know, kid.” He looked almost sorry for Sam.

                Sam pressed his arm harder into Noah’s neck, “Trust me.” he growled, “I really do.”

                Noah closed his eyes, and he wheezed, “Heroin, kid. You’re brother has more than anyone I know, I don’t know how he pays for it all.”

                Heroin. Sam dropped his hands. He didn’t thank Noah for the information, he wasn’t grateful to know it. He just said, “Go.” And Noah scrambled away, looking back in fear at Sam.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                Sam walked out of the alley in a daze. He sat down on the bench near the bus stop. He pressed his palms flat against his ears, hoping that it would quiet the ringing in his head. _Heroin_. The word echoed around his skull, Noah’s raspy voice spoke again and again. Sam was sure he’d never forget the sound of it.

                He sat for an unknown amount of time, looking shocked, like he’d just emerged from a battlefield. He snapped out of his thoughts when he heard a sweet voice, vaguely familiar, calling his name,

                “Sam?” said Jess.

                Sam looked up in surprise. “Wha-? Oh. Um. Hi, Jessica.”

                She smiled, “Just call me Jess.” She sat on the bench next to him. Her smile faded into a concerned frown. “Are you okay, Sam? You look… I dunno… you look like the world just got pulled out from underneath your feet.”

                Jess was certainly observant, thought Sam. He replied, “I guess you could say that.” He expected that she would ask him what he meant, and he decided that he didn’t really want to answer that question. Instead of saying anything though, she just laid a hand on his shoulder. He felt a little shiver run through him when she touched him.

                She looked at Sam for a long moment, and then spoke. “It may feel like the world’s been pulled out from under you, but look” She gestured downward, “It’s still right here. Just where it’s always been.” She got to her feet. “I bet you the Earth’s solid enough to stand on, even.” She joked. She pulled him up by the arm. Sam wobbled a bit, and her hand slid down the length of his arm, and she held his hand, instead.

                Sam blushed. Dean was the ladies man, not him. Jess didn’t even seem to think about the fact that they were holding hands, instead she pulled him along the sidewalk. As he trailed behind the blonde girl Sam called, “Where are we going?”

                “You’ll see!” replied Jess.

                                                                                                                                                           

                She dragged him along for about two blocks, before stopping at a little park. There was a small patch of grass, a sad-looking swing set, and a rusty metal slide. It didn’t look like much, and Sam wondered why she’d brought him here.

“You wanted me to go with you to a little park?” he asked.           

“Nope!” she said, infuriatingly not elaborating.

She walked across the small field, letting go of Sam’s hand as she reached the edge of the pine-y woods. She crunched through the needles, expecting that Sam would follow. He did. He looked down at the hand she’d been holding. He kind of wished she was still holding it. She turned to face him for a moment, and encouraged,

“We’re not far now!”

They crunched through the otherwise silent forest. Jess stopped at an old maple tree, big enough around that Sam doubted he could fit his arms all the way around its trunk. She reached for the highest branch, her shirt lifting up, showing a sliver of her stomach. Sam blushed again and focused on her hands, not her midriff. She hauled herself up onto the branch, hooked her legs over it, and hung upside-down, smiling at Sam. Her curly ponytail hung inches above the soil, it was so long.

“C’mon, Winchester!” she grinned. “Can’t you keep up with a girl?”

Sam smiled back at the girl, grabbing a nearby branch, one that was higher than hers, might he add. “Race you to that branch up there” he said, indicating the branch with a jerk of his chin. With that, he pulled himself up, and began to climb in earnest.

When he reached his goal, he found that Jess was already perched on top of it, and upon seeing his look of surprise she winked. “Nice try, Sam. But this is my tree.”

“I guess so” said Sam, “but gimme a few weeks, and I bet I could beat you” Silently he admonished himself. He wouldn’t _be_ here in a few weeks. Why would he tell Jess something like that?

“Bring it on, Sammy”

Sam started.

“What?” asked Jess. “You look like a cow hit with a shovel.”

“Oh.” he stammered back, “It’s just that nobody really calls me that, just my friend and my” he paused, and took a deep breath, he’d almost forgotten about Dean, “brother. My brother.”

“So that’s it!” Jess looked almost triumphant.

“What’s it?” Sam said, puzzled.

“That’s what’s bothering you. Your brother!”

“Um. Yeah. Was it that easy to tell?”

Jess thought about it. “Not really. The way you paused though, I kinda recognized it.”

“Recognized it?”

Jess looked a little bit embarrassed. “Wow. I can’t believe I just said that. See, that’s sorta how I sound when I talk about my mom.”

“What happened with your mom?”

“I didn’t _say_ anything happened with my mom, jeez.”

Sam simply raised an eyebrow.

“Okay. Well…” She exhaled heavily, seeming to debate what to say next in her head. “My mom has a drinking problem. She gets pretty emotional when she drinks, talks bad about my dad, talks about how she regrets having any kids at all.”

Sam blinked once. “Oh.”

“What do you mean, ‘Oh.’?”

“Well it’s just that, my dad drinks too. I’m kinda surprised though, you seem pretty well-adjusted.”

“Well so do you!”

Sam laughed so hard he nearly fell off the tree branch. The sound carried little mirth, it was mainly bitterness.

Jess was infuriated, “Aren’t you Mister Mysterious? Do you mind telling me what it is that makes you so jaded?”

Sam’s laughter quieted immediately. “No, Ma’am.”

Jess looked satisfied with that. “Right then. But we’re getting off track. What’s wrong with your brother, huh?”

Sam reflected that Jess was being a bit obnoxious about this. Fussing and mothering. It was actually comforting, in an irritating way. “I only just found out the whole story. I was trying to process it all when you walked by me today. I still haven’t totally processed it.” He paused there.

“You’re not answering my question, Sam.”

“M-my brother’s a heroin addict.” He stammered out. As soon as the words left his lips he felt his cheeks burning in shame, and he ducked his head away from Jess.

“Oh.” she said, in a tiny, quiet voice. Uncertainly she ventured, “I’m sorry, Sam.”

Still determinedly looking away from Jess, Sam shook his head. He felt her fingers pulling on his chin. She made him face her.

“I’m sorry.” she said.

Then, without any indication as to what she was about to do, she pulled Sam’s face to hers, and kissed him chastely for a few long seconds. Then she flushed.

“Sam.” she gushed, “I like you, Winchester.” She hoisted herself to her feet, and began to climb down the tree. “Don’t wait up.” She said it wistfully. Like she knew that Sam couldn’t stay, but there was no way she could have known. She scrambled to the ground, and ran off through the trees without a backwards glance, leaving Sam alone on the branch of the old maple tree, lips burning where they’d met hers.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some internalized homophobia in this chapter not to mention some serious drug use, so once again, tread with care!

 Sam sat on the limb of the old maple for how long, he didn’t know. The sun began falling from its zenith by the time Sam shimmied back down the sweet-smelling bark of the grand tree. As he hit the carpet of pine needles below with a soft thud, he realized that he should tell Gabe about what had happened in the already eventful day. But what should he really tell him about? Dean’s problem buzzed at the back of his skull, but Jess’s kiss clouded his mind. Both, he decided. And with that, hiked back through the forest, and to the library.

                When he arrived at the library’s glass doors he found no sign of life behind them. A sign on the window proclaimed that the head librarian was at a conference in Toledo, and that the library would be closed until Tuesday. Sam shrugged it off, and turned down the street in search of an internet café.

                Luckily for him, only a few blocks south of the library he found a run-down coffee shop (Express Espresso) that had one computer in the corner of the room on a splintery old table. He paid the barista $1 to start the dial-up and hoped that Gabe would be online already, lest he spend all ten dollars of his birthday present from Dean on the ridiculous computer-usage rate.

                He sighed a bit in relief when, upon logging in to his IM account, Gabe’s icon was already glowing ghostly from the window.

                “gabe!”, he began.

                “hey there moose. have i ever mentioned to you that you need to work on this whole “greeting other people” thing?”

                “maybe once or twice… but thats not the problem right now! she kissed me, gabe!”

                “who kissed you?”

                Right, Gabe didn’t know about Jess. Sam described her in glowing terms, trying to paint an accurately beautiful portrait of her, both inside and out. Sam could nearly feel Gabriel rolling his eyes after every sentence. He decided to ask

                “have you kissed anyone gabe?”

                “oh, sammy, you have no idea”

                “really? wow! how many girls have you kissed?”

                “oh… not too many”

                Sam was puzzled. “well… what’s the name of the last girl you kissed?” Sam cursor blinked at the bottom of the text box. It took a full minute for Gabe’s response to appear.

                “his name was darren.”

                “what?”

                “his, sam. his as in a boy. i kissed a boy.”

                This news was… Sam wished he could just say surprising, but after years of living with hunters like Bobby, John, and even Dean, he couldn’t help but feel repulsed. It wasn’t supposed to happen like that, right? The men crowded around the bar at the roadhouse always called it unnatural. Wrong.

                Sam made no response, and his minutes ticked away, it looked like he’d be using up all of his money after all. His IM pinged.

                “sam?”

                And Sam didn’t respond.  The alert sounded again. Over and over, in a chorus of pleas.

                “moose?”

                “hey cmon. im still gabe. im still always gonna be here when you cant figure something out, ya dummy.”

                “Sam, please.”

                “Please.”

                “It’s so hard, being in this body, in all these teenage feelings. I don’t know what to do about it, okay? Please Sam. I’ve been alone for so long. It’s been eons.”

                “Sam don’t do this. You need me, and I want you… around.”

                And still, Sam did not respond.

                “Fine.”

                “Respond or don’t, Winchester. I don’t care. I won’t be logging in to this account anytime soon.”

                Here, Sam hesitated. Gabe was his friend. His only friend. But then he sneered a bit, he had Jess for a friend, even _better_ than a friend, and Gabe? Gabe couldn’t be trusted when he did things like kiss boys. He wasn’t natural, and Sam had quite enough of the supernatural in his life.

                “Goodbye, Sam.”

                And then Gabriel’s icon blinked out, a white, empty, bubble where his former friend used to be.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                After his ordeal with Gabe the high from kissing Jess had dissipated, leaving him in the stark truth of his life. Dean was addicted to heroin. In all of his research from the previous night, _Was it really only last night?_ wondered Sam. So much had happened in the last 12 hours that the relatively safe state of ignorance he had enjoyed last night felt as though as it was years ago. In all of the scrolling through pages and pages of after-school special material he determined that heroin was one of the worst drugs out there. It wrought havoc on your body, was highly addictive, was dangerous to inject, and was extremely illegal and valuable contraband.

                He considered all this as he walked the now-familiar route back to the motel. It occurred to Sam that they had been in this town an unusually long amount of time. The witches John was hunting must have been great in number, or very powerful. But soon enough they would move on. Sam would be glad to leave behind this place, considering all of the memories it now cradled, a few were pleasant, but most were painful. He sighed, and opened the door to the room, bracing himself to face his brother.

                As he opened the door he hear the sound of metal skittering across the linoleum floor. Bewildered, Sam retrieved, from under the kitchen table, a tarnished spoon. As he picked it up and examined it his mind flooded with recognition. He dropped the spoon immediately, letting out a sharp gasp. Spoons were often used to cook heroin, but he had never seen one used for that purpose. He didn’t even know where Dean had gotten such fine silver, dirty though it was. Unless… in one of his father’s storage rooms, one in the Albany area, the few possessions that were saved from the fire that had ravaged his only home were kept. Most things in the basement were spared, although John considered them useless. What he kept were, among other things, an old watch belonging to his father, a family photo album belonging to Mary, and… A set of china and silverware that belonged to Deanna Campbell, their grandmother. It made Sam feel sick, knowing that something his mother had probably cherished as a reminder of her family was being used for something like drug abuse.

                He got up from where he was crouched in the dim kitchen, looking around the room for Dean, who was obviously there, and obviously being careless. He was lucky Sam had found the spoon, and not their father. He had started toward the bathroom door when Dean stumbled out of it, smiling manically. He lurched to Sam, wrapping his arms around his torso, pinning his arms at his sides. He breathed, heavy and hot, next to Sam’s ear. He sing-songed too loudly,

                “Saaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaammy! Where have you beeeeeeeeeeen? We’ve been having so much fun here!”

                It didn’t take an IQ above 30 to know exactly what was going on with his brother. He was high. Peeking over Dean’s shoulder he saw the ever-present jacket laying on the bathroom floor, along with rubbing alcohol and a syringe, still containing some of his brother’s chosen poison.

                Dean staggered away from his brother, and looked around before leaning back in and whispering conspirationally,

                “I’m not supposed to be doin’ thiiiiis. If Dad knew he’d maybe feed me to a wendigo. Don’ tell Dad?” His voice quirked into a question.

                Sam sighed, “No. I won’t tell Dad.”

                Sam saw Dean visibly relax, so much so that he began to fall forward onto Sam’s shoulder. Sam propped him back up, holding him at arms length in disgust. Dean continued, “I’m really bad. Real bad, Sam.” and with that, he began to cry.

                It was the final straw to Sam, to watch his brother reduced to tears. He let go of Dean completely, and stalked into the bathroom, kicking the drugs out the door, and then slamming and locking it behind him. He let out an angry cry, and punched the dirty bathroom mirror, cracking the glass, and cutting his hand. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. He needed Dean and instead he was destroying himself. He needed his father and he drowned himself in the business, and in cheap whiskey. Sam sat on the edge of the tub, ignoring the blood seeping from his hand. He stayed in the bathroom and waited.

                On the other side of the door he could hear Dean swing through his entire emotional range in the time he spent in the grips of the drug. He wept, laughed maniacally, babbled incoherently, and paced in fits of paranoid fear. Slowly he quieted, until Sam determined that he had fallen asleep.

                Sam ventured out of the bathroom, any evidence of Dean’s drug abuse had been hidden, but for Dean himself who was sleeping off his high. Sam had just finished washing off his hand when he heard the door bang open, and a voice shouting his name. It was his father.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's not much to say about this chapter that can be put here, so instead I'd like to thank anyone who has taken the time to read this far, and to thank all of my lovely beta readers! I love you, my chickies!

John walked into the room for the second time that Sam had been awake, but this time he wasn’t drunk. He was bright-eyed and dangerous-looking.

                “Sam. Dean.” His voice was commanding, like he was calling role in the Marines.

                Dean woke immediately, snapping to attention before his eyes were even totally open. Sam walked out of the bathroom, watching as Dean wobbled a bit towards their father, but otherwise betrayed no hints of the evening’s activities. Except for the fact that he avoided looking at Sam. The brothers stood shoulder-to-shoulder as their father paced in front of them.  He spoke as he walked,

                “I’m sorry to drag you boys into this” he begins, and for a moment he looks truly remorseful, “but, I need your help. I’ve been hunting that coven of witches, questioning victims, but the damn bitches keep escaping the scene. Luckily for us though, boys, the Maters of the coven left to go hunt down some poor sap, and the younger members have decided to sneak out to do whatever it is those hags do in their free time. Now’s the perfect time to raid their house, maybe even set up an ambush. But I need you two for the job.”

                Immediately Dean nods. Sam didn’t expect anything else from Daddy’s perfect soldier. Dean affirms to their father,

                “Don’t worry, Dad. Sammy and I will do whatever you need.”

                _Speak for yourself_ , thought Sam. He didn’t want to go anywhere with his father or his brother, an especially not in tandem. Victims be damned! It wasn’t their job to save everyone! Sam took a deep breath, and did what he had begun to do in the last few years when the job became too much. He imagined going to college, walking across a big stage in an arena, shaking hands with the dean of a university and receiving a diploma, a degree in _something, anything_ , just as long as it was a normal job. He could taste the sweetness of mediocrity, and he exhaled, holding on to that hope for the future.

                John turned away from his charges and began to rifle through his bag of supplies on his bed. At this obvious dismissal Sam went to his backpack to retrieve some homework, and Dean hurried into the bathroom, emerging with his leather jacket safely in place and looking much more relaxed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                As the sun set over the little town Sam and his family began loading clips into their guns. Sure, there was no special weapon for defeating witches, but they were mortal, and when it came to a bullet to the head, all mortals were created equal. Sam smirked at the irony. Right now, there were families playing monopoly around the kitchen table or watching a movie all huddled together on the couch. And here were the Winchesters, preparing for battle.

                John spoke gruffly, “All right, boys, let’s gank some bitches, huh?”

                Dean and Sam replied in varying degrees of enthusiasm, “Yes, sir.”

                And with that, John led the way out of the motel and to the coven’s den.

                The family walked out towards the edge of the town, near the community college, as the coven had roosted in a sorority house. It was a good cover for why all the women were living together. The old Victorian house was dark inside, and the door yielded easily to John’s lock picks. _Almost too easily_ , thought Sam. They crept inside, and had just decided that their best bet for an ambush was the witches’ private quarters. Dean took point as they snuck towards the old staircase, hearts racing with fear even after all their years of experience. Sam was studying the bookshelves lining the walls of the foyer when it happened, Dean was frozen at the edge of the stairs, a guttural scream struggling to free itself from his rigid lips.

                Immediately the house was awash with light, and Sam and John shouldered their weapons as the first of the coven came drifting down the stairs. Their guns didn’t matter much anyway, Dean was at the mercy of a dozen bloodthirsty sorceresses who could kill him with a snap of their fingers. A woman who held her head high with an air of authority glided down the steps. She was tall, elegant, and wickedly beautiful. Her dark skin was like satin, and the only things about her that were darker than her complexion were her eyes, hair, and soul. As her sisters filed down the stairs behind her, all looking malevolent and stunning Sam noted that they all wore simple white dresses, giving them an undoubtable unity.

                The Mater laughed upon seeing Dean trapped. “Well now,” she purred, “I didn’t know we had such a flock of hunters here. I don’t suppose these boys are yours, Winchester? They’re far too pretty.”

                “Why don’t you come over here and I’ll whisper it in your ear, sweetheart.” spat John.

                She only laughed more, “Ooh, feisty, feisty. But that’s not any good for your boy here, and what’s bad for him is even worse for you.”

                She stepped towards Dean, and stroked his short hair, murmuring in false concern. “Oh poor baby. What Daddy doesn’t know won’t kill him, huh?” Fear consumed Dean’s eyes, his limited breathing quickened noticeably. The Mater turned towards her disciples. “Well girls, I’d say we got lucky netting this one.” “Gleaner, Wight.” She snapped, “Set up the bindings around our catch, I want our birdie to sing freely.”

                Two witches freed themselves from the mass, “Yes, Phase.” They busied themselves around Dean’s feet, lighting blood-red candles and sprinkling metallic black powder over their flames. Phase waved one hand in Dean’s direction and he collapsed to the ground. John and Sam surged forward to him, but Phase pushed one hand towards them, erecting a wall of force between them and Dean.

                “Now, now, boys. No interrupting until story time’s over.” She winked at Sam, and turned back to Dean. “There’s something to be said for black magic, Dean.” No telling how she knew Dean’s name, but there also wasn’t much evidence for why she knew about his “story”. “You see,” she continued, “this trap here is designed to target the fear centers of your brain. I imagine it’s an unpleasant experience. But what’s the point of causing distress to only one of you hunters when you’ve all so rudely trespassed here? There isn’t much of one.” She grinned down at Sam’s brother, who was now struggling to rise to his knees, grimacing in pain. “But fortunately I have you, and what you have is enough to break your little family. So sing for me, little birdie.”

                Dean’s eyes brimmed with tears, and he struggled to crane his head to look up at the witch. He gritted his teeth and whispered “Make, me, bitch.”

                Phase took on an expression of false surprise. “Oh my, you really shouldn’t have said that.” She snapped her fingers and Dean’s reaction was immediate, his back arched, eyes rolled, and he gurgled painfully. Phase dropped her hand suddenly, and Dean slumped forward, breathing heavily, sweat shining on his forehead. “Wight,” ordered Phase, “take off that little security blanket” she said, tilting her chin to indicate Dean’s jacket.

                “Yes, Mother” smirked Wight, lunging forward, her fingernails elongating into claws, and tearing Dean’s jacket into shreds.

                Dean’s forearms were exposed, mottled with ugly bruises, some fresh and some fading away. John spoke,

                “Dean? What happened?” His voice was gruff but tinged with concern, as was his face. But it faded away with Dean’s answer, forced out between clenched teeth.

                “I happened.”


	7. Chapter 7

John’s voice was low, calm, and deadly.

                “What do you mean, Son?”

                Dean struggled to keep quiet, perspiration rolling down the sides of his face. Phase made a pressing motion with her hand and his resolve broke, he gasped before continuing, in a voice saturated with shame,

                “Dad. I’m sorry. I… It’s…” Phase clenched her hand into a fist. “Heroin.” panted Dean.

                Tears slowly rolled down Dean’s cheeks as John considered this answer. Sam expected him to fly into a terrible rage, but his voice remained steady.

                “Why, Dean?”                                                                                  

                Sam knew the story up to here. This was the answer he couldn’t research for himself, one he couldn’t sleuth out by watching Dean. The room was humming with tension, even the witches were hanging on Dean’s words, wanting to know the morbid truth.

                Dean took several deep breaths, and this time he was not punished for his silence. He began in a voice that was wavering and weak, full of cracks and fear. “Do you remember Amy?” His eyes were cast down as he waited for some affirmation from John. Sam _didn’t_ know Amy, which he found strange, since they all spent so much time together. But John seemed to know her, nodding as he posed a question,

                “I bailed you and her out of prison, didn’t I? Was it then, Dean?”

                Dean nodded mutely. Phase clucked her tongue apparently dissatisfied with how slow-going the proceedings were.

                “Yes but why, Dean? Why did you do that? Did you desert Daddy and Sammy all for a pretty girl?”

                A shake of the head from Dean.

                “Elaborate” she commanded, accentuating each syllable with a squeeze of her fist, causing tears to spill over the brims of Dean’s eyes.

                “It wasn’t just Amy. She- she gave me that first dose, but that’s not w-why I d-did it.” Dean shivered violently as he continued, “Dad, I’d just crashed the Impala, it w-was the f-first time I’d driven without you, I was taking Sammy to school and I lost control, crashed into a ditch. It was my fault that S-sam nearly got hurt.”

                Sam remembered that day, they’d merely swerved into a ditch on the side of the road. The worst damage was some scratching on the side of the Impala and Sam being late to school. If anything, Dean was in the worst danger in that situation. And yet there was guilt consuming Dean over this. _Why would he-?_ And then Sam realized, his father had beaten Dean over this, blown it out of proportion in his mind, told him he was a failure, that he deserved to be punished. They were the kinds of things John had shouted at Dean for years.

Dean kept going, “I was st-stupid and selfish. I felt like I didn’t deserve to be punished. I went to Amy and she told me she’d get my mind off of it. I knew that it was dangerous, but I guess I didn’t care anymore.”

Sam doubted that, more likely his brother felt he deserved to be punished more rather than less, so he’d sought out something to bring about his destruction. Their father’s words always seemed to take root in Dean’s thoughts like twisted weeds. Sam could tell he was right by looking at Phase’s dissatisfied expression, she knew Dean was lying, but the damage the lie would cause must have been sufficient to her, because she didn’t do anything to Dean.

John spoke, tone still level and cool, “That was stupid reasoning, Dean. I don’t deal out punishments if they aren’t deserved.” Sam swore he saw Dean flinch. This admission wasn’t going to be good for Dean’s immediate health. “So, what? Then some rent-a-cop found you and the girl and arrested you for being out past curfew?” Dean nodded to the floorboards. “You’re damn lucky that they didn’t find that poison on you, boy. I can’t believe I bailed you two out with my hard-earned money, I should have let you stew together.” Dean was still looking down but Sam could see the tears rolling down the bridge of his nose, splattering on the floor.

Phase turned to the family, speaking from thoughts pulled out of Dean’s mind. “It seems that he was hooked after that, sneaking out after you got him released, injecting it and craving more instantly. What a downfall for Daddy’s little soldier. But John, we aren’t addressing one big problem. This was _months_ ago. How does he pay for all the drugs, huh?’

Shock and then disgust passed over John’s features. “Well, Dean?” Sam didn’t think the scene could be worse, but it became clear that this was what the witches were really looking for, something to pull all stability from the fragile bond between the brothers and their father.

Dean didn’t respond to his father’s question, and Phase did nothing this time, guessing correctly that John would make him speak without black magic. John merely stepped towards his trapped son, unhindered by the witches, and Dean cringed, the words spilling out from his lips,

“The women, the m-men, anyone who wanted a favor from me, well, they had what I needed.”

“You a whore, boy?”

Dean broke into sobs, gasping for air. John turned to the front door, walking away from the witches. He spoke to the assembled mass, “Keep him. I won’t be coming back. I won’t hunt here anymore, you sorry sluts. C’mon, Sammy.”

Sam didn’t follow his father, he stayed where he was, watching carefully to see what the witches would do to Dean. Phase looked at Dean with mild amusement,

“Thanks for the show, dear. Daddy’s gone for good now.” She snapped her fingers and Wight and Gleaner rushed forwards again, extinguishing the candles and dragging Dean to the door. Sam followed him, grabbing his arm from Gleaner and carrying him out of the house himself.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

               Sam was surprised at how light his brother was, his body already wasted from the months of drug abuse. When they reached the street under the sorority house he dropped Dean to the pavement, and crouched next to him, waiting for his wild, animalistic sobs to subside.

                When he finally quieted Sam spoke to him softly, like he was a child,

                “Dean, it’s gonna be okay, alright? You’re stronger than all this.” He didn’t believe his words, but he tried to deliver them with conviction. “You’re a Winchester.”

                Dean spoke, voice thick with tears and heavy with shame, “Sam, I’m a dirty s-slut. Dad wasn’t wrong. Everything is for that drug, but goddamnit Sam, oblivion’s just so damn tempting.” Sam was shocked and scared, he knew Dean was weak, but this was different. Wishing for death was never something Sam suspected of him, never something so _cowardly_. Dean kept going, “All of them, all those faceless, shady guys, I did everything they asked for. I used to puke up their taste, couldn’t talk for days because they were so fucking _rough_.” He began to shiver again, shaking so violently that his teeth chattered. Sam put an arm around his shoulders, now bony and fragile. He hugged his brother close to him in the dark, knowing full well that he couldn’t fix what was wrong in Dean, not sure he wanted to.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~  


                When the boys finally trudged back to the motel it was obvious that John had been tempting some oblivion of his own. A shattered bottle of what used to be Jack Daniels lay on the floor as John paced over its remains, its contents singing through his veins. When his sons walked through the door he stopped cold. He stalked towards the brothers, but his focus was on Dean alone.

                And there it was, the rage Sam had expected, pouring out of his father’s mouth, manifesting itself in every blow John landed on his eldest son. Dean stood with his head bowed, accepting the abuse, absorbing the pain and the words that John shouted.

                “Idiot! There’s nothing you can do right, Dean! How _weak_ do you have to be, huh?! How brainless?! How selfish are you?!” He continued to yell, even as Dean slumped to the floor, blood leaking out of the corners of his mouth, eyes blackened, face puffy. He began kicking at Dean, bruising his ribs, and though Dean winced after every blow, but did nothing to protect himself.

                Sam stood frozen, watching the scene. His father had never been this angry, never done anything so awful to Sam. A realization hit Sam with the same force of kicks to Dean’s frail body. _John had beaten Dean like this before. Maybe even regularly._ His brother accepted all the punishment, believed every cruel, venomous word that John spat at him, because he had endured them all before.

                Quietly Sam left the room, walking briskly into the early morning, cold wind stinging tears out of his eyes. He didn’t know for whom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And unfortunately, (or fortunately, depending on who's reading) this is all I have written up to this point! I have a few ideas for where to go next, some of which include a shift to Dean's point of view, but I'd really like your opinions on where to take this next! What more do you want, if anything? Thanks for bearing with me!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Sorry it's been so long but as you all know it's Con Season and I have been doing what all experienced cosplayers do: Saving every little detail or difficult piece until the absolute last minute and then having a tiny panic attack because suddenly time is too short. Anyways, I'm back and with a change in point of view, no less. Thank you for reading!

Dean could feel the cold bricks of the school building against his back, the stone leeching the little warmth he had from his body. He had come outside as soon as the shaking started, sheltering himself behind the cafeteria, curling in on himself as the pain wracked his body. In his chest there was a void and it sucked every his thought into it. Where his vital organs used to be, heart and lungs and blood, there was hollow need and it consumed him.

                Of course there were days when Dean didn’t get his fix in time, when his body craved what he simply couldn’t get for it. A thousand things could go wrong, and he had spent more than one night shaking and sweating out his desire. This was nothing like that.

                It had been two weeks since the Winchesters had left behind the coven of witches, two weeks since his father had looked him in the eye, two weeks since Sam had said a word to either him or his dad. After two weeks Dean could still feel the bruises on his ribs, his eyes having finally faded to a swollen pink. And he had felt every minute of those weeks acutely. Every cell in his body screamed for Dean to give in, for him to kneel to the power of the drug. He had thought that nothing was worse than death, but existing as he did now… well, death might be kind of peaceful compared to this.

                His shakes escalated to tremors, and his teeth chattered in his skull. He pressed the flats of his palms against the sides of his head in an attempt to stabilize himself, but his vision still swam. He could feel stirring in his stomach and bile rising in his throat. He dragged himself into a crouch just as the first wave of vomiting came over him, all that came up was bile. He’d eaten as little as he could since withdrawal had begun to affect him, waning thinner than he’d been in the grips of heroin.  He coughed until there wasn’t anything left, and sat back on his haunches, sweaty and worn out.

                He closed his eyes, trying to escape the pain that had become a constant in his life when he felt a rough hand settle on his shoulder. And he remembered all of them. Every hand that had been in that place, belonging to the men he’d paid with one of the few things he had: himself. And he could taste their lips, soured with alcohol, he could feel their hot breath on the shell of his ear, he remembered the sound of his voice, spent and raspy begging for just one more hit, he remembered the sight of a hundred eyes, glaring down at him in contempt, echoing what his father had said, that he was worthless.

                He spun away from the hand, pressing himself closer to the wall in fear, retching up the taste of his partners. He had hoped that he would never have to feel them with him again, but he was wrong, they were always with him, everywhere. Tears traced down his cheeks when he heard someone speaking.

                “Are you okay?” said a gravelly voice.

                Dean tried to stop shivering, but couldn’t. He couldn’t respond to the voice, _the man_ , he assumed standing at his shoulder.

                The man continued, “I suppose you aren’t okay. Am I also correct in assuming you do not want the school nurse here?”

                _School nurse?_ Dean turned to face the man, instead finding a teenage boy. His voice was deep enough that he could easily be mistaken for a fully grown man. He nodded at the boy, swallowing hard and panting out short desperate breaths.

                “G-go away.”

                 The boy seemed to weigh the decision to go before shaking his head, “No… It appears that you have medical needs that supersede your desire for me to leave.”

                Dean sighed. This kid must’ve been homeschooled, the last time he’d heard someone talk like that was when he interviewed professor of theology at Park Rapids Community College. “Look, kid” wheezed Dean, “You really _don’t_ want to be here right now.”

                The boy replied in a monotone, “I do not want anything. But you seem to be in need. And I can help you.”

                Dean let out a mirthless laugh that turned into a rasping cough. When he recovered his breath he stood up, leaning on the wall behind him as he observed the kid. Seeing him fully for the first time brought Dean to the conclusion that, _Yeah. This kid was definitely homeschooled._ He was wearing a collared shirt with little blue pinstripes tucked into the most pristine pair of jeans Dean had encountered, and shiny dress shoes. In contrast to his neat little outfit he had dark brown stubble, patchy though it was, and messy brown hair. Dean snorted,

                “Kid, you know it’s not picture day, right?”

                His brow furrowed, a dissatisfied expression that looked ridiculous on his thin face. “Do not refer to me as ‘Kid’. I am quite old.”

                Dean rolled his eyes, “Then what should I call you? You’re a bit mysterious at this point.” He almost called him “Kid” again, but bit back the word.

                The boy looked downright _confused_ , his mental struggle showing clearly on his face. Great, Dean’s new friend was brain dead. Finally the kid said slowly, uncertainly, “C. Call me ‘C’.”

                “What? C.J.? A.C.? D.C.?” Dean smiled faintly at his own joke, but C didn’t seem to get it.

                “No… Just C, please.”

                Dean pushed himself off the wall, trying to stand steadily even though his vision turned black at the edges. He smiled at C, the cocky smile he’d worn since he was 6, when John told him he was too old to cry anymore.  “Well, C. It’s been a pleasure, but I really would rather be in class than here. And that is _not_ a compliment.”

                He turned to walk away, wobbling only a little, when he was jerked back by the shoulder, C’s hand once again resting there. “That”, he said, turning Dean to face him, “Would be unwise.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                Dean spun to face the boy.

                “Dude!” he exclaimed, “What the hell?”

                C looked both confused and completely innocent when he replied, saying “What? Have I done something wrong?”

                Dean brushed the hand off his shoulder, and said harshly “Oh, nothing. Just grabbed a frickin’ _stranger_ who was obviously trying to lose you. That’s totally normal!”

                C tilted his head in further bewilderment, “If it is totally normal why are you reacting with such verve?”

                “I was being sarcastic. Don’t you know what that is? Huh?”

                C leaned close, studying Dean’s face, “I understand the concept of sarcasm, yes. I did not know you were making use of it. Should I take this to mean that you do not think it is normal to put your hand on the shoulder of a stranger?”

                Apparently the guy was homeschooled and Amish or some shit. Dean then noticed how close C was to his face, his cheeks growing warm as he pushed the boy away from him. “Woah, personal space, man. And no, usually you don’t just cuddle some dude you met behind a school.”

                C stepped away from Dean, arms swinging jerkily, body stiff and unnatural. “I apologize, but I could lay a hand on you and make your sickness cease.”

                Dean felt panic stirring in his chest, laughing uneasily, “Firstly Buddy, you can’t just magic away sickness by touching someone. Secondly, I don’t have some common cold or whatever. I’m not sick.”

                “Your shaking and sweating both characterize illness in humans.”

                When C said that Dean froze. This kid said “humans” like he wasn’t one, like he was some kind of supernatural creature posing as a teenager. Dean stepped even further away from C, his hand going to his hip where he found no gun, only air. He decided to give C a chance, asking him slowly, “What did you just say?”

                The boy concentrated for a moment, and surprise flashed across his face. “I er- I mean to say that um, _we_ shake or shiver when ill.”

                That was all the proof Dean needed. He pulled his thin body up to its full height, vertebrae cracking, and looked C in the eye. “Tell me what you are. Right now. Or, so help me God, I will run you over with my car.”

                C nodded instead of looking afraid. “I am the help of God. I am not here to cause any automotive distress. I have been assigned to heal you, you are destined to turn the tide of a coming war between heaven and hell.” C paused, apparently waiting for some kind of dramatic reaction. Instead Dean turned and ran, hoping that he’d be fast enough to make it to the Impala.


	9. Chapter 9

It had been a long time since Dean was fit enough to run. As his feet pounded against the asphalt behind the school the sound of them began to grow faint, black dots dancing in his vision. He stumbled, then fell, little pieces of gravel embedding themselves in his palms and dragging at his knees. He tried to catch his breath well enough to stand again when C appeared in front of him. He simply appeared from thin air. As Dean panted C looked down at him, pity coloring his gunmetal blue eyes.

                “You cannot run from me, Dean.”

                Dean gasped out, “How do you know my name?”

                “You are my charge now. It is only fitting that I know your name. I approached you originally as one of your peers would, but I obviously did not blend in well enough to fool you.”

                _“Obviously”_ , thought Dean. But instead of saying that aloud he lurched to his feet, falling as much as running, trying to escape C. His lungs constricted in protest, and he tumbled into the arms of the boy (or whatever it was). C held Dean up by the shoulders, his grip now like iron. He spoke in a monotone, his face uncomfortably emotionless in way that a teenager’s never would be.

                “I am a celestial being, I have been sent here to heal you of the illness you have contracted. There is no need to escape me.”

                Dean wheezed, “Oh, buddy. I got plenty of reasons to escape you. I’ve been hunting my whole life. You think I don’t know evil when I see it?”

                C’s eyebrows drew downward in concern. “I am not evil. I am one of God’s warriors.”

                Dean leaned back, trying to loosen the thing’s grip on him. He laughed, “Oh yeah? And since when did God’s warriors possess innocent teenagers?” His lip curled up in disgust and his voice went low, “Only demons take humans for joy rides, _C_.”

                Almost as if talking to himself C said “Well… I am allowed to perform one small miracle to prove my celestial intent.”

                The contemptuous response Dean had been preparing died in his throat as C’s eyes closed and opened again, this time glowing with ice-blue light that hurt to look at. Behind him stretched two shadowy wings, the tips of their flight feathers dragging on the ground. The hands on his arms grew too warm, and vibrated with pure power. The being that held him spoke, but its voice was now layered, many tones harmonizing hypnotically, ringing out across the parking lot with power and magic.

                “I am Castiel” It said, “An angel of the lord.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                The light coming from Castiel’s eyes dimmed, now only faintly glowing through his blue irises. His wings had disappeared and his voice went back to the monotonous gravel it was before. He continued as his grip on Dean slackened.

                “And you need not fear me, Dean Winchester. I am here to help.”

                Dean blinked furiously, trying to get the spots to disappear from his vision, and half-hoping that Castiel would disappear with them. The angel in the boy’s body remained, placid expression having never changed. Dean’s voice spoke, meeker than he’d have liked it to,

                “W-with what?”

                “Help you with the illness consuming you, of course. The Seraphs agree that it is unlikely you will be able to survive it, or at least survive it mainly unscathed. There are few true healers among angel-kind. If we fall in battle we have Potentates, they slay angels in acts of mercy. This was unacceptable for healing a human. I have been sent to heal you, instead. All angels have the power to heal humans with our grace.”

                Dean stared at the boy, dumbstruck. It sounded so… Organized. Not only were angels real, apparently they were a functioning bureaucracy.

                Castiel shrugged off Dean’s silence. “It is not important, in truth. I can heal you in mere seconds.”

                Before Dean was fully aware of what he was going to do, Castiel raised two fingers, held like he was performing a benediction, and pressed them to Dean’s forehead. They felt warm and the air was suddenly filled with the smell of honey and roses. He felt his eyes slide closed, and he leaned heavily into the hand that was still gripping his arm.

                Castiel removed his fingers, and immediately Dean straightened up. He felt immensely better, nausea gone, breath flowing easily into his lungs, and dizziness banished, but despite all of these things Castiel squinted at him in confusion and displeasure. Dean didn’t take much notice of it.

                As Castiel released him he took a deep breath in, his lungs expanding with cool air, laughing out an exhale because for the first time in weeks, _in months_ , he felt whole. He gingerly touched the middle of his chest, surprised that it was solid, as if he expected a real hole to exist where he’d imagined it. He looked up to the sky, which looked bluer than it ever had before, chuckling as he said to Castiel,

                “So you’re an honest-to-god angel, are ya? This is great, because boy did I need that mojo!” He breathed deeply again, savoring the feeling.

                Castiel still looked concerned. “I don’t believe I have cured you…”

                The beautiful sky Dean had been admiring felt like it was cracking above him, his relieved laughter dying in the air that now felt too cold. He found that Castiel was right, a part of his brain that had been fooled by false hope for a minute began to plead for oblivion again. He felt the hope he’d foolishly created crumble.

                Castiel didn’t seem to pick up on it, still considering the problem. “What kind of illness did you have, exactly? I have cured some of it, but the rest still remains in your veins. Like black ink in your blood.”

                Dean huffed out a breath, walking over to the Impala. “You can see my blood?”

                “Of course, though not constantly. I simply lowered my vision to the spectrum in which your insides are visible. I can also see your thoughts and emotions, although those can be seen through your soul.”

                Dean blinked, looking up to Castiel. “You can see my soul?”

                “I just said so.”

                “And?”

                “And what?”

                The angel wasn’t very intuitive. “Never mind.” Said Dean, leaning back against the hood of his baby.

                “It was rather difficult to look at actually, quite bright, although blackened around the edges.” Castiel shook his head and continued, “But you have failed to answer my question. In order to know how to heal you I must know what to cure you of. I thought it was simply a virus, but this has proven untrue.”

                Dean sighed. It didn’t matter at this point, did it? If he wanted Castiel to fix him, he needed to know. “I um.” Okay, so maybe it did matter. If there were angels maybe there was a God, and Dean didn’t really want to confess directly to him.

                “Dean. Please.” Said Castiel, seeming to force out the last word.

                “I am- was- addicted to heroin.”

                “Oh. Diacetylmorphine?”

                Dean shot the angel an annoyed look. “Dude. I don’t know. I ditched most of chemistry.”

                “This may explain why the healing only worked partially. I can cure the symptoms of your withdrawal, for a time. But the true problem lies in your desire. Do you think perhaps, that you could give up the desire for heroin?”

                Dean laughed bitterly. “Oh yeah, I hadn’t thought of that, Cas!”

                Castiel tilted his head to the side in confusion. “Cas?”

                “Castiel. Whatever. I can’t just give up wanting heroin. If it was that easy, I would. I’ve been clean for two weeks and it’s all I can think about.”

                “I see. It is a mental roadblock for you, then?”

                “Yeah, I guess.”

                “This will require some more work, then. However, I can cure this too, but I will need your cooperation.”

                Castiel came closer to him, crowding him. To hide the frenzied pace of his breathing Dean spoke, “What? Are we gonna hug or something? I don’t want to have any chi-” At that moment Castiel pressed his fingers to Dean’s temple again and Dean collapsed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                When Dean stirred again he felt carpet beneath him. He looked up and Castiel was standing next to him, offering him a hand up which Dean gratefully took. He stood, looking around as he began to question Castiel,

                “Where are-” but he stopped short. He knew where they were. The white walls and soft yellow light glowing through the old four-paned windows were sights that belonged to his childhood. This was the house where he used to live. The house where his mother had died, the house that burned hot on a dark November night, and there were the  old stairs that Dean had carried his infant brother down, spurred on by instinct and fear.

                He turned to the angel. “Why?” “How can we be here?” He didn’t give Castiel a chance to answer, his initial bewilderment fading to anger. “Take me away from here! What right do you have to drag me back here, huh?! Where were you and God when she was dying, Cas?!” He stormed across his old living room, wrenching open his front door, expecting to walk into the Kansas afternoon. Instead, he stood on the front porch looking out over an abyss, violent winds were blowing around grey dust and the sky way the same dark grey. He wasn’t on Earth.

                Castiel appeared at his shoulder. “I am sorry to have distressed you. I did not intend specifically to bring you to your old dwelling. This is simply a manifestation of your thoughts. It seems you confine your thoughts to the form of this place.”

                There was a long pause as Dean tried to sort through the mess of a sentence Cas had just spit out. “I’m- We’re- in my brain?”

                “Yes.”

                “Nope. Nope. No. This is unacceptable. I should _not_ be in here. No. Nuh-uh. We need to leave this instant.” Dean began to card his fingers through his hair, his breathing becoming shallow and rapid.

                “But if we are to solve your-”

                Dean cut him off. “No. No, Cas! I can’t be in my brain. This is so off the reservation! I need to leave. Right. Now.”

                Castiel was unmoved. “I have been assigned a mission. I cannot leave here until you are healed.” He put a hand on the small of Dean’s back, propelling him into the house that he was so eager to leave a minute before.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my dear readers! I have tried to pull myself together a little bit here, which means that this chapter is going to be quite a bit longer than the others (but not actually very long compared to most other works...). And, at last, there is a small amount of Destiel! (Which is still more than there is in the show, am I right?) Tread lightly, because there is a fair amount of abuse and homophobia ahead!

Dean walked back into his last house, taking small, stiff steps towards the old couch with its fading floral print. He sat down on the edge of the cushion and put his head between his hands. He felt a small bump as Castiel sat down next to him. The angel was a bit too close, his knee knocking against Dean’s, but Dean couldn’t summon the effort to be bothered by it. Everything was moving far too fast. His life was weird, but it had never been _this_ weird. To ground himself he made a list of all the things that had happened in the past hour.

  1. _He’d gone outside to wait out his withdrawals. Then a weird kid had come up to him and started insisting that he could help him._
  2. _He’d run from the kid, who he thought was some kind of supernatural fiend, but was actually an angel._
  3. _This angel had some kind of magic finger, and he’d healed Dean of his withdrawal symptoms._
  4. _But he couldn’t heal him of his addiction so he had transported the two of them into… into… his mind._
  5. _Which looked like his old house._



                Castiel commented, “You’re forgetting that you are to be the leader of Heaven’s forces in an upcoming war against Hell. You also left out my intent to heal you from within.”

                Dean started. “Dude? Were you reading my mind?!”

                “Yes. You seemed to be missing some important events. If it helps you to cope I am happy to supply what you’ve overlooked.”

                “Don’t read people’s minds, Cas!”

                “Why wouldn’t I? It is a very useful tool.”

                “Because it ain’t right. You aren’t supposed to see some things.”

                “As you wish. Although that is a moot point, considering where we are.”

                Where they were. Which was Dean’s brain. How could Castiel read his mind when they were in it? Could he read his own thoughts? His head started to hurt from overthinking it, and when he started to wonder about the mechanics of getting a headache inside of one’s own head he gave up on it all together.

                “So, Cas, if we’re in my head, where is my body?”

                The angel looked thoughtful for a moment. “I suppose that we are not in your physical head, per se. I have transported one section of your waking consciousness to your subconscious. In doing this your body has gone into a sleep-like state.”

                Dean mulled the words over. “So… we’re in a dream?”

                “I suppose. What you are experiencing is not truly natural to the human body, the closest phenomenon to this experience is a lucid dream.”

                Dean sighed in relief. “At least that makes some sense. So, what exactly are we planning to do here, Cas?”

                “That may require some specifications on where ‘here’ is. It is your brain, but most importantly it is your frontal lobe, specifically the sector where personality is housed. It is here where many of the experiences and preferences and things that make up Dean Winchester are.”

                Dean swallowed hard. He didn’t really want to keep focusing on this whole “in his brain” thing. “Okay. We’re in the front globe or whatever. And we’re here because?”

                “Because the cause for your reliance upon heroin can likely be found in your memories, or some self-destructive part of your personality. We will have to address this memory.”

                “‘Address’? You mean, talk about it? About feelings?”

                Cas was as unperturbed by this thought as Dean was perturbed by it. “Yes, if that will help you overcome your addiction.”

                Dean sighed. If Sammy would talk to him again, it was worth it. “Okay, angel. Lead the way.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                Castiel lead the way up the creaky wood stairs in Dean’s house. Brain. Brain-thought-house-thing. He stopped at the door nearest the stairs, the door that used to lead to Dean’s bedroom. He remembered asking his Mom to leave it cracked open before he went to sleep every night, so that he could see the light in the hall until his parents went to bed.

                Cas placed one hand on the old brass handle, looking back at Dean as he said, “You may want to brace yourself. We are about to enter a memory. It could be a jarring experience for you.”

                Dean shrugged. “It’s my brain, Cas. How bad could it be?”

                Castiel didn’t say anything more, he simply opened the door and stepped inside the dark room. Ignoring the slight fear that had built up in his gut Dean followed him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                He knew that when he walked inside that it wouldn’t be his old bedroom, but he didn’t know that it would be _this._ He turned around, eyes wildly searching for the door he’d just walked through, but he couldn’t find it. He started breathing heavily, his chest expanding and contracting rapidly. He was trapped. And this was the worst possible place to be trapped in. Castiel appeared at his side, placing a hand on his shoulder, maybe in an attempt to recreate some sort of consoling touch. Dean jerked away from the hand, the last thing he needed here was touch.

                “Dean. If you are to surmount your problem you must face its origins.”

                Dean would’ve replied if his tongue hadn’t been stuck to the roof of his mouth. He would’ve begged to leave, but then a figure walked into the old motel room in which they stood. It had garish orange decorations on the wall, a TV in the corner facing a stiff couch, and a white kitchen table next to a wide window. This was a room Dean couldn’t forget. It was their motel in Fort Douglass, and as he watched small, 9-year-old Dean cower under the table he knew what was coming next. His first beating.

                The figure walked under the flickering fluorescent light, revealing it to be a haggard John Winchester. He placed a sawed-off shotgun on the table with a thump. Little Dean made a small whimpering noise at the sound. This was the night of his first failure, where he’d left to have just a little time to himself, and Sammy had almost paid the price for it with his life. The Strega would have killed him in his bed, an innocent little boy, if John hadn’t arrived just in time to shoot it full of salt. John stood in front of the kitchen table, speaking slowly and calmly.

                “Dean. Come out from under there, boy.”

                Little Dean didn’t respond, instead he let out a miserable sob, wiping his nose on his long sleeve.

                “Don’t you cry, son. I want you to man up and get out here right now.”

                Little Dean crawled out from under the table and stood ramrod-straight before his father, looking up at him in tearful determination.

                “Now, Dean. I want you to tell me just exactly what the hell you were thinking.”

                “I-I wasn’t thinking, Dad! I Jus-jus wanted to go out an-an Sammy!” His sentence dissolved into sobs. Dean could still feel the words on his lips, seven years later. He still felt the fear that had accompanied them, and the fierce desire to protect Sam.

                John grabbed Little Dean roughly by the chin, jerking his face up so that the two were looking right into each other’s eye. “I said. Don’t. Cry.” Little Dean nodded and sniffed, trying to get the tears to stop. “Lemme get this straight, Dean. You went out and left Sam here, all alone, when I ordered you to stay and protect him.” Another nod. John grabbed both of Little Dean’s arms, shaking him back and forth, “You telling me you don’t respect me, boy?! You tryin to say that you don’t love your brother, huh?! That you don’t love this family?!”

                “No! No I do I’m so sorry, Dad. I do I do I do!” Little Dean said the words desperately as his head lolled back and forth under John’s treatment.

                Suddenly John let go and stepped back from the boy. His eyes narrowed. “Oh, so you didn’t want Sammy hurt?”

                “No, Dad! Never!”

                John’s voice grew ever louder, “Well that’s too bad, Dean! Because he almost did get hurt! Sam almost DIED!” He took on a mocking falsetto tone, “But no! You’d Never purposely hurt Sam!” He spoke normally again, face drawn in careful consideration. “Maybe you’re just stupid.” He leaned back down towards Little Dean, and then swiftly hit him across the face. Little Dean gasped, clutching at his cheek and looking back towards John in horror. He didn’t stop there. “You’re worthless. You can’t think hard enough about protecting this family. You can’t do the one task I gave you right. You should have been the one burning in that house fire, because the only thing you got of Mary’s were her eyes. You’re nothing like your mother, and she wouldn’t have been proud to know that you’re her son!” He punctuated every sentence with a blow to Little Dean’s body, chest and face and legs. Dean felt the phantom ache in his ribs, where the first of many bruises to come had formed so long ago.

                When Little Dean had been reduced to a sniveling mess John turned away from him, his fists clenched. He walked out the front door of the motel, leaving the boy on the cold linoleum floor.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                While his younger self lay prone on the floor behind him Dean turned to Castiel.

                “What was the point of that?” His voice wavered dangerously “Why did I need to live that again, Cas?”

                “Because it was the beginning, Dean. This is when your father began to tell you that you were less important than him or Sam.”

                But he wasn’t just telling Dean. Dean _knew_ that he was worthless. His father pointed it out to him, but really, that wasn’t John’s fault. It was his, for not protecting Sam. 

                “He was only punishing me for what I did wrong, Cas. It’s not his fault that I screwed up. I deserved a lot worse for endangering Sammy.”

                Castiel sighed. “This may be difficult.” He murmured, mostly to himself, “Okay, Dean. As I understand it, the human psyche is difficult to navigate. We will simply move on to the next memory for now.”

                Dean harrumphed. His psyche was _fine_.

                Castiel raised an eyebrow at Dean’s thought, “Oh really? I suppose that’s why we’re in your mind right now, as a memory of yourself lies at your feet in tears after an episode of parental abuse.”

                Dean flushed angrily, “Cas! Don’t read my thoughts!”

                Castiel turned, summoning the plain white door to Dean’s old bedroom out of nowhere, the very air and fabric of the memory rippling as it was summoned where it hadn’t been before. He spoke over his shoulder as he stepped through the portal, “As you wish. But, Dean Winchester, you are not _fine_.”

                Face drawn in anger Dean stormed after him, stumbling back into the narrow hallways of the Lawrence house. When his feet were back on the worn carpet Dean felt immensely thankful to be back in his home, no matter how painful it was. Anywhere was better than that memory. A few feet down the hall Castiel stood in front of the coat closet. The boy standing on the threshold reminded Dean that he wasn’t safe in this house, that he was about to reenter his memories, and he had no idea what they would show him next. Castiel must have sensed his hesitation, or perhaps just assumed that any rational person would hesitate after being shown their failures over and over again, because he strode to where Dean was standing and wrapped his hand around Dean’s wrist, his iron grip leading a reluctant Dean into the next memory.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They stepped onto a dark street, facing an old Laundromat. There wasn’t much that was notable about the place, it was old and the windows were dingy. But when Dean saw it all the breath in his lungs rushed out in a surprised whoosh. He knew the scene, he’d lived it only two weeks prior. Sam sat inside, perched on one of the freestanding driers. A few tears rolled down his cheeks as he stared pensively out the windows. Nobody else was inside, although a few loads of laundry spun in the machines behind him, adding color to the stark white of the walls and tile.

                When Dean recovered his breath he began to search the streets for his presence, and soon he found it, a shuffling limping figure clutching at its ribs as it wandered aimlessly down the street. He saw himself draw up short upon seeing Sam. As his past self walked into the Laundromat present Dean stood rooted to the spot. Castiel pulled him forward once more, following the other Dean inside.

                When Sam looked up to see who had entered his face showed pure shock, and shortly thereafter what could only be described as revulsion. Present Dean swayed on his feet, and Castiel put his other hand on Dean’s arm to steady him as the conversation unfolded before them.

                “Sammy…” wheezed out the beaten Dean.

                “Dean. Look, I’m sorry I left, it’s just-”

                “You couldn’t have stopped him, Sam. And you shouldn’t want to either. It was something I brought on myself.”

                Sam seemed to nod slightly in agreement before shaking his head, as if to clear away what he was thinking. “I don’t know, Dean. You were really being weak, Dad wasn’t wrong about that.”

                And both Deans felt the truth of the words. They were carved into their ribs, echoing out every time their hearts beat. The words “worthless”, “selfish”, and “weak” belonged to them as much as the leather jacket did. As much as the name Winchester didn’t belong to them.

                “I am weak, Sam. Nothing like you or Dad.” The battered Dean began to cry again, his pain trying to escape by any means. It was too much for Sam. Though Dean hadn’t noticed it before he now saw the disgust that twisted Sam’s features. He knew that it inspired the words that came next.

                “Dean! Just stop crying, okay? You aren’t supposed to be like this!” Sam spoke fiercely, with panic underlining every word. “You’re supposed to be the big brother! You aren’t supposed to be some whore with a drug problem! I-I don’t want to see you like this anymore! Just-just go away, Dean!”

                Without realizing that he was doing it Dean held tightly to Castiel’s hand. There it was. How Sam perceived him, pitiful and stupid. And maybe he was right. It wasn’t fair for him to try and lean on Sam. He stood next to the memory of himself as Sam sprung off the dryer and raced out the door. The last words that Sam had said to Dean echoed around the room, _just go away_.

                This time, as the memory came to a close Dean didn’t breathe a word. There was nothing to say. He felt empty, his brother and father’s hate for him ringing out inside his skull. He kept hold of Castiel’s hand and he took determined steps out of the Laundromat. When he pushed through the glass door he was back inside his parent’s home. He walked over to the stairs, dragging Castiel behind him and sitting down heavily on the top step. Suddenly his hand was empty as Cas flickered out of existence before reappearing, stood on a step a few feet down the flight.

                “We have to continue Dean. It is the best way to heal you.”

                “What’s the point of healing me, huh, Cas? Dad and Sammy already hate me. There’s no way I can get them to forgive me. Why should I even bother?”

                Castiel looked at Dean with a very small amount of emotion flickering across his stoic face. He looked vaguely dumfounded, which was a rather lot of emotion for the angel. “Well for yourself, of course.”

                “For myself? Oh yeah, because everything I’ve done for myself has gone swimmingly. I don’t even really deserve to do things for myself. I should just let myself waste away.”

                Cas flickered even closer, crouching down before Dean so that their eyes were level, blue staring piercingly into green. “You should absolutely not. Do you think that my father painstakingly created each and every one of you for you to waste the life he breathed into you? Do you not believe you’re worthy of life, Dean? Really and truly? Because I _know_ that you deserve to live. I know that you deserve to live a real life, with a father better than the one you have, a life where you’re a carefree child, the kind of boy God would want to exist in his most gorgeous creation.”

                Dean was prepared to shrug off the little speech, to wipe away all the words by saying that he didn’t need to hear them, that he didn’t want to have any touchy-feely moments. Cas must have sensed that he was going to brush off the speech. In response Castiel did something he wasn’t expecting. He grabbed Dean by the front of his plaid shirt, hoisting him up off the step bodily, and slamming him against the wallpapered wall. His voice had changed from the compassion it held a moment before. That was the protecting angel, the healer, the symbol of heaven’s endless mercy. The way in which he spoke now was the voice of an avenging angel, of heaven’s ferocious warriors who could level a town with little effort, he spoke with the wrath of a terrifying seraphim.

                “Do you intend to waste this life, Winchester? Cherish my father’s work, or you will leave this world and experience Lucifer’s instead. Hell is nothing like you imagine. It is a thousand times worse. Do not ignore my words. Understand?” Dean nodded mutely. Castiel’s grip slackened, his voice returning to the gravelly monotone it was typically. “Good. You must live for yourself, Dean, because you are worth living for.” He offered Dean his hand, which Dean took instinctively, and they walked back down the hall, towards the room that had belonged to his parents.

                Dean braced himself silently but stalled for no more than a second before turning the handle and pushing open the door to another memory.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                He stepped into a school locker room, like one of a hundred he’d seen in his life. The locker room itself was unremarkable, and the boys populating it would have been forgettable, but for one exception. There was one boy, huddled in the corner, his back to the stone wall, eyes flitting around nervously as a few bigger boys, almost men, really, drew closer to him. The memory-Dean, who was about 14 in this particular memory, stood near his locker, watching as the large boys drew ever-closer to the trapped boy. Memory-Dean had known where this was going, the kid had fear scrawled across his features, and the big boys were obviously going to instill some more into him. Dean had considered stepping in, but he couldn’t defeat three boys that were much larger than him, no matter how skilled he was in fighting. Big-and-ugly number 1 spoke to the kid,

                “Baker! I heard you’re mackin’ on Chaunce. That true, faggot?”

                The boy, Baker, whimpered out, “N-no, Chase! I m-mean. I uh.”

                The goons on either side of Chase laughed menacingly as the bully continued, “I thought so. See, Wyatt, we don’t take very kindly to fags in this locker room. Wouldn’t want some gross guy getting his rocks off in here, see?”

                Memory-Dean felt a surge of fear for the boy, but if he kept his mouth shut he’d probably be just fine. Which is when the boy decided to develop an attitude,

                “Trust me, I wouldn’t be looking at you, Summers. I’m offended just standing near you.” his voice trembled but the words were still plenty dangerous. The sneer on Wyatt’s face slid off as quickly as it had appeared when the boys stepping in closer, cornering him. Dean turned away, trying to ignore the sound of skin on skin and the distressed cries of the poor kid.

                Before Dean could even begin to interpret _why_ he’d seen that memory of all the ones in his head the walls became fluid, shifting into another background entirely. The grey block walls of the locker room melted, and reshaped themselves into a street down which John, Sam, and Dean walked. In this memory Dean looked to be about 12, and Sam was only 8. This was a werewolf case they’d worked in Alabama, but the sight before him had nothing to do with any supernatural creatures. They’d ganked the thing in a warehouse in the middle of the night. It certainly wasn’t on this sunny street, and Sam wasn’t there at all. So why was he here?

                Two girls came walking down the sidewalk, hand-in-hand. John reached out for Dean, who was walking closest to the women, and yanked the boy harshly away from them. He spat on the ground before their feet, “Dirty dykes!” he hissed. A strange expression crossed young Dean’s face as it stretched, and the Alabama day began to shift into yet another memory. It was compassion, maybe even empathy. Then the street disappeared entirely, and the strange parade of memories marched on.

                This time the storefronts of the town became the dark wood paneling of a place Dean recognized. It was Bobby’s house, and the man standing before him was certainly Bobby, though he was perhaps ten years younger. John stood in front of Bobby, and the two men were arguing, although what they were saying was still a bit indistinct. Dean squinted, eyes roaming the entryway of the house for where a past version of himself must have been. _There_.A young Dean, maybe only 5 years old, sat on the landing of the old stairs, his legs dangling out between the railings as he listened to his father and uncle fight. Their words grew clearer as the phantom house settled into reality.

                “He’s just a kid, John!” Argued Bobby’s voice, full of undeniable love for the Winchester boys. “He don’t know what it means!”

                “So what? He’s allowed to learn that it’s _normal_ , huh? That it’s _natural_?”

                Bobby looked hurt. “I ain’t sayin’ that it _is_ natural. I’m sayin you don’t have to yell at ‘im! Or at me. I want what’s best for the kid, John.”

                John roared in outrage, “AND I DON’T? I WANT THE WORLD FOR THAT KID! BUT I DON’T WANT HIM TO BE SOME KIND OF FAGGOT! YOU THINK THE WORLD’S EASY ON THEM, HUH?”

                At his father’s raised voice 5-year-old Dean got up from the landing and ran into the room he and baby Sam shared. He was crying but he didn’t really know why. He didn’t like it when Bobby and Daddy fought.

                The elder Dean remembered this, though it had been repressed for a long time. Wrapped in fear and locked in a mental drawer labeled “Denial”.  He had leaned over to a little boy on the playground in kindergarten, and kissed him on the cheek. It was just the way he kissed Sammy on the cheek. He had flushed under his freckles when the little boy smiled back at him. That was when his teacher had grabbed his arm, jerking him up roughly from where he sat before the slide. She’d called John and told him that Dean was _not_ to harass other students like that. She scolded John for his bad influence, and lamented the fact that Dean had no mother to set him straight.

                It seemed that this was where the flow of memories dried out, and Dean stood with Cas next to the stairs in this house that had been more home than anywhere else. It felt somehow tainted now. He looked to Castiel, and noticed how close they were standing. It had felt natural, but all the same Dean stepped away. Cas looked at him in slight confusion.

                “Not to detract from the importance of any memory over another, but this did not seem very useful.” He tilted his head to the side, studying Dean. “It is also atypical for more than one memory to be stored in the same spot. Was there some common thread connecting them?”

                Dean blushed and stammered, “W-what? You d-didn’t notice it?”

                “They are your recollections, not mine. I did not detect anything unifying about them.”

                Dean lowered his voice to a whisper, even though he knew that, logically, no one else was inside his brain to hear him. “They’re all, y’know, _gay_.”

                “That is untrue. The last memory-” He read Dean’s mind for the story, “Oh. I suppose they all were. Although not in a positive capacity.”

                “Nothing’s ever positive with my dad.”

                “The question still remains: what does this have to do with your drug abuse?”

                “Dean looked down at his shoes, fear churning in his gut. “I don’t know.”

                Castiel sighed, obviously he could tell that Dean was withholding the truth. He didn’t comment, though. Instead he offered his hand to Dean, saying as he did so,

                “The mind does many unexpected things. We must proceed to the next memory. It is the final memory, as it is also the last door.”

                Dean ignored the hand that Cas held out to him, striding past the angel and into the recently formed doorway.


	11. Chapter 11

Dean walked out onto the pavement of a parking lot. It was located next to a school he’d attended more than 4 months ago for a few short days. By his usual pattern it should have been long forgotten, but this school was seared into his brain. It was Mountain Pointe high school, in Arizona. John had been hunting some kachinas that were stirring up huge dust storms that swallowed entire farms, with no trace left of anybody.

                He felt the presence of the angel behind him. It felt more intrusive than it had behind the other doors. This was Dean’s weakest moment. This is when it started.

                Dean squinted in the sunlight, it was realistically bright and hot in his memories. He scanned the parking lot for the Impala, finding it at the Eastern corner of the lot. His past self was leaned up against its side, though school had obviously begun already. Dean walked towards himself, Castiel following taciturnly behind him. He couldn’t see it from where he stood, but Dean knew that on the door behind his past self there were a litany of scratches in the paint, and there was a small dent in the center of it all that had all been put there that morning. To top it all Sam had banged his head hard against the back window when the beloved car crashed into the ditch, and he’d gone to school with a huge bruise on his forehead.

                As he neared himself a figure appeared from behind the school, hips swishing like seduction personified. He knew who it was, and he wished desperately that he could escape this strange place.

                Amy strolled out into the sunlight, and Dean couldn’t help but admire how beautiful she was, as his past self did the same. But this Dean didn’t know what he knew, that she was beautiful in the way fire was, enchanting and deadly. Her brown skin was perfectly smooth, her dark curls were pulled into a high ponytail, showcasing the elegant column of her neck. Her chocolate-colored eyes glittered mischievously and her red lips were pursed in a pout, making them look even fuller than they were. Her clothes were tight, but not truly revealing. You had to work a bit harder for that, Dean knew.

                When she came into full view Castiel growled low under his breath. “ _Disgusting_ ”, he hissed. Dean was snapped out of his morose observation for a moment, surprised. Angels were supposed to know all about beauty, but maybe Cas had flunked out of Renaissance Paintings 101, or something. She was a knockout. A toxic, manipulative knockout.

                Dean murmured to him “You blind, Cas? You lookin’ at her soul or something?”

                Cas’s lip curled, “That _abomination_ has no soul. It’s a demon in the body of an innocent girl.”

                “A demon?!”

                “Yes, Dean, a demon. You’re a hunter, aren’t you?” quipped Castiel, showing a remarkable gift for sarcasm.

                Dean supposed it seemed like the kind of evil thing a demon would do, but if Amy was a demon that raised more questions than it answered. Why would a demon try to get Dean addicted to heroin? Why not just kill him if it wanted him dead? And worse, just because the demons wanted it didn’t mean that demons were only to blame for his addiction. He’d done just what Amy had wanted. He still brought about his own downfall. Amy had just pushed him along.

                When he heard his own voice speak his train of thought derailed, and he focused again on Amy who had now sauntered up to the Impala, splaying her fingers over its glossy hood.          

                “Hey there, Sweetheart, shouldn’t you be in class?” Dean’s voice sounded much fuller and healthier then it was now, even though it seemed his heart wasn’t in the flirtation.

                Amy purred back, her speech carrying the smoothness of a Spanish heritage. “Ooh, but there’s never anything as pretty inside that old school. It’s much more interesting out here.”

                The past Dean cracked a cocky smile. “Well then, missy, you should be glad I found you out here before you get into any trouble. You never know what kind of danger you’ll find from hanging out with hooligans in a parking lot.”

                She pulled a fake-surprised face, her voice simpered with gratitude, “Oh my! I’m new, I didn’t know anything out here was dangerous.” Her face suddenly twisted, becoming sultry and self-satisfied, “Or, at least, more dangerous than me.”

                Dean chuckled a little bit, “Oh yeah, Sweetheart? What makes you dangerous?”

                She strode closer, smirking up at Dean. “Oh honey, what I’ve got can make your head spin. You’d forget everything but your name if you came with me.” She sighed dramatically, turning around, but looking over her shoulder as she strode away, “But you’re not brave enough to do it. If you want me to show you, come back here at midnight, and you’ll see just how” she licked her lips, “ _dangerous_ , I can be. Oh, and it’s Amy.”

                The past Dean stared after her, gaping, as the present Dean simmered with fury. She called out one last time, this time without even looking back, “See ya, _Sweetheart_!”.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                The bright blue sky melted away, revealing a dusky black dome sprinkled with a few stars. The temperature dropped 20 degrees in an instant, and Dean was thankful for his ever-present jacket. The parking lot remained the same, as did the silhouette of the school, but every car had disappeared from the lot. Behind Dean there was the sound of tires crunching over gravel, as the Impala and its single rider rolled into the lot, the headlights off for stealth.

                The boy who climbed out of the Chevy couldn’t have been the boy from that afternoon. He didn’t carry himself with any of the confidence, his mouth didn’t turn up in an arrogant smirk. This boy’s shoulders were hunched, his mouth was puffy and swollen, a condition shared by the rest of his face. His eyes didn’t dance impishly, but instead were downcast and blank.

                The blank-eyed boy settled onto the hood of beloved car. If Dean had to describe this iteration of himself in one word he’d say “defeated”. And he was. Only John Winchester could so thoroughly stamp the life out of the boy.

                Amy appeared underneath the single streetlight, the unusual lighting giving her an ethereal glow, like an angel.

                Castiel hissed, apparently having heard the thought as it crossed Dean’s mind. “Please don’t compare my brothers to that _vermin_.” He requested through clenched teeth.

                Dean imitated Cas’s tone, “Please don’t read my mind, _angel_.”

                Amy spoke, drawing the attention back to the situation at hand. “Well, well, _carbon_. You came after all.” She looked him up and down, a knowing sneer slowly crossing her face. “I guess you need what I’ve got to numb all those bruises, huh?” She pouted mockingly at him. Past Dean didn’t respond. She put her hand on his arm just above the elbow, her touch extremely gentle for an apparent knave of hell. “C’mon, sweetheart. I have something that can make this all better.” Her voice lilted up at the end, unable to keep the mirth entirely out of her voice.

                Stonily Cas remarked, “She was thinking about how miserable and pathetic you were.”

                Present Dean started. “Uh. Cas, How can you read her mind in my memory? And anyway, why do you care? I mean, I kind of get how she feels about me.” Dean really didn’t need more information on how many people thought he was worthless.

                Cas shrugged. “You interpret her body language and some of her aura automatically. It’s part of every human’s senses. Often you don’t consciously interpret, and when you do your subconscious misses much of what I can construe.” He looked very confused as he tried to answer Dean’s second question. “As for the latter… I don’t know. I felt if I told you you would… Dislike her?”

                “Yeah well, don’t worry about that, Cas. If you can read minds you’d know I more than dislike her.”

                Almost inaudibly Cas grumbled, “You were thinking that she was beautiful moments ago.”

                “I know you’re only seeing her creepy dark soul or whatever, but that chick is still smoking, demon or not.”

                Cas crossed his arms and looked straight ahead, ignoring Dean.

                Following Cas’s gaze, Dean saw what, in his mind, he considered the true beginning of the end. Amy shepherded his past self into the Impala, climbing into the passenger seat without any invitation. And suddenly Cas and Dean sat in the back seat, listening as Amy directed Dean to a seedy alleyway between two abandoned stuccoed buildings. Sandwiched between the empty lingerie store and the desolate tattoo parlor rested four people. As present Dean looked on their remembered faces he saw only their eyes, differently colored but all holding the same desperation behind them. Their faces and bodies blurred, leaving behind only their addiction. Every body responded to Amy’s arrival, lurching a bit towards her. It was clear that she was in control of the situation and of herself.

                Amy gestured to past Dean. “This is Dean.” At the time Dean hadn’t questioned how she knew his name. Now he didn’t need to. “He needs a bit of a pick-me up. I don’t suppose any of you know where to find a good time?” The misremembered shapes all laughed in unison. She continued, “Dean, this is” what followed were four different patterns of garbled sound. Three of the shapes rose, pinning him with their frantic gaze and fumbling for his hand. The fourth shape remained slumped against the wall. The shapes converged on Amy, as exchanges of money were made for raw heroin were made so deftly one wouldn’t have expected the same people to have trouble shaking hands. The present Dean knew exactly what would happen next.

                He closed his eyes. He didn’t want to see it again. He had every motion memorized anyway. His body cried out for the release it knew the other people there were finding. His past self had looked upon this scene for the first time apathetically. He had felt that he wasn’t worth saving, that he might as well wither away of his own volition. And a part of him wanted to forget. He just wanted to slip away from all of his responsibility, and from his own consciousness. His arms shook as he heard a lighter click. He flinched slightly as an excited murmur began inside the alleyway. He braced himself for his least favorite sound. The simultaneous relieved gasps that occurred when the body’s needs were finally met. But it didn’t come.

                Dean and Castiel were suddenly standing side-by-side in front of the nursery door. Castiel whirled, facing Dean. “You’re waking. This would be impossible, unless you were seriously threatened.” As Castiel tilted his head searchingly to the side, his eyes fluttering half closed the house around them began to flicker. “There is a nearby hazard. But it’s not you that’s in danger. It’s your brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this has been sitting on my computer for 3 years. i figured i'd get rid of it at last.


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